


The Call

by Antarctica OKane (C0DENAMEAntarctica)



Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [1]
Category: Greg Lestrade - Fandom, Mark Gatiss - Fandom, Mycroft Holmes - Fandom, Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Christmas Dinner, Established Mystrade, Explosives, Fireworks, Gay Mycroft Holmes, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Guy Fawkes Night, Hospitals, I Love You, Love Letters, M/M, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Mentioned Sherrinford, Oral Sex, POV Mycroft Holmes, Romance, Serious Injuries, flashbacks/dreams, mystrade, references to The Final Problem, romantic bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C0DENAMEAntarctica/pseuds/Antarctica%20OKane
Summary: This is the first installment of the collection, The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes.We join Mycroft as he reflects upon a series of events that have interrupted the progression of his, so far, secret relationship with D.I. Lestrade.  They've agreed to bring their love out of the shadows but everything halts because of a single phone call.
Relationships: Established Mystrade - Relationship, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: The Personal Journal of Mycroft Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037250
Comments: 54
Kudos: 90





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING:  
> This work deals with mature themes and features explicitly described sexual interactions.  
> This story is not for readers under the age of 18.
> 
> Copyright Note:  
> This work is intended for the personal use of the author and other members of the listed fandom. It is written with complete respect for the creators and writers of Sherlock. This work in no way aims to change, correct, or significantly alter properly published works. While Doyle's works are Public Domain, the author understands that material written by Gatiss, Moffat, and Thompson is still protected. This work exists only for the purpose of entertainment and will never be sold or otherwise used for profit. Any requests to remove this work made by Gatiss, Moffat, Thompson, Sue Vertue, Beryl Vertue, Hartswood, BBC, or any other related entities will be honoured immediately without question. 
> 
> Plagiarism Note:  
> In this author's Mystrade fics, Mycroft is an avid reader. Whenever we find him reading, we will find him reading Great Expectations. This is the author's nod to Mark Gatiss, the actor who plays this version of Mycroft Holmes on television. Mr. Gatiss has named Great Expectations as his favourite novel.  
> When we find Mycroft reading the novel, we may see quotes of text from the Dickens' classic within the fanfic. Great Expectations is, of course, now Public Domain, so copyright is no issue, but this note is just to explain that no plagiarism is intended.

**Prologue**

I had quarreled with myself silently but, somehow, still found the embossed calling card in my pocket. It smelled of Claire de la Lune, a powerfully floral fragrance that I’d learnt to tolerate for short bursts of time in my office. Here, in my home, though, it seemed a likely candidate for causing hypoxia.  
If Greg had decided to attempt yet another reconciliation with his wife, why shouldn’t I indulge? I’d never been with a woman. I’d never even considered it a possibility.  
I still didn’t.  
Greg was playing a game - fighting a psychological battle within himself. I, though I disrelish the admission, was becoming - jealous? I was not, at the time, au fait with many emotions. Needless to say, then, jealousy seemed a vexing knave come to call.  
My unyielding mind, however, was made up. I would phone Lady Smallwood, and Greg would be plainly aware of it.  
As I reached for my sitting room telephone’s antique brass handset, it felt as though I was reaching for something else. Reaching for him. It had been months, now, since my fingertips had touched his powerful biceps - months since I had been near enough to drink in the Ombré Leather scent of his cologne commingled with a hint of Sterling menthols.  
Never mind how I felt. The reality of the moment was that Greg’s fondness for me was, apparently fleeting enough, that a few moments experiencing the blunder of human sympathy could erase it.  
Though our - relations - hadn’t started until well after Greg’s most recent parting with his wife, he still felt an often articulated guilt. There was a lingering sense of duty toward her, but it couldn’t be argued that he often used duty as a reason to remain in the closet - both about his bisexuality and our liaisons. By offering my company to Elizabeth Smallwood for an evening, perhaps I could help Greg understand the experience of being second choice.  
The concept of irony, I believed, was a delusion. I couldn’t help but note, though, that I was led now to make a phone call. All this was happening because of that other phone call. “Miserable timing,” I whispered aloud to myself. If that other call had been timed differently - if that other phone call had never happened - I wouldn’t be making this one.  
My mind wandered as I heard the line begin to ring. Suddenly, I heard my name. I could almost feel Greg’s warm breath on my collar bone as I heard it again. I wondered if I could picture him - fantasize about us while spending my time with a woman.  
“Mycroft? Is everything alright?” I heard a confused voice speaking on the line.  
“Elizabeth. Yes. Good day.” My stomach churned as she began to talk about how happy she was to hear from me. 

**Chapter One**

We had planned it. _The_ night. _The_ conversation.

I watched as the man I formally addressed in public as Detective Inspector Lestrade carelessly spilled beer foam on my bar top. He wiped it with his already filthy handkerchief before delivering a glass of chardonnay to my side table and joining me on the sofa with his stout. He pulled out a cigarette and reached for his lighter, which he had left on the glass tea table before us.

Just that. That was all it took to put me into a trance. The way he held the tiny cylinder between his teeth as he prepared to light it. I rarely speak in colloquialisms, but he _was_ sexy as hell. 

As a rule, I had always avoided the more vulnerable aspects of human existence - intimacy, sex, sentiment. I made a calculated effort to keep a safe distance from the disadvantage of emotional entanglement. To my dismay, though, the universe saw fit to bring one man into the world who challenges everything I am - one man with the unique ability to disarm my glacial heart. _This_ man.

Greg and I had been enjoying the pleasure of one another’s company for a few years. Greg was married, and I was often preoccupied with my work. We had arrived at an impasse, however. The desire to make our relationship official, structured, exclusive, and, perchance, committed was mutual, though not always spoken. We had set aside this evening to ascertain the best way forward. After years of our intricately choreographed tango of elusion, we would sit. We would discuss. We would compromise. Once and for all, we would thrash out the details of an arrangement with which we could both be content.

I watched from my periphery as he rolled up his white sleeves and buttoned them at the elbow. His left hand unfastened the top four buttons of his wrinkled oxford as his right arm landed to rest on the cushion behind me. I couldn’t help but turn to gaze at him. I could feel my trousers become a bit tighter as I noticed that his chest was freshly and flawlessly waxed. Clearly, he assumed tonight’s conversation would go quite well.

“So, whaddya think?” he asked calmly while offering a slight grin.

“I think I would like to hear you say exactly what it is you want.” My complete opposite in some ways, he was so relaxed and casual. I wanted him to feel the frustration and urgency I’d been experiencing for more than a year. 

“Gimme your hand. I’ll let ya’ feel what I want.”

Why did he do this? Of course, I was not one to lead with feelings, but his frequent attempts to escape meaningful conversations by assuaging my hunger for him were growing old. “No! Greg!” I raised my voice with insistence as I abruptly stood and faced him. “We agreed.” I allowed my eyes to pierce through his, reminding him that lustful gratification would not suffice on this night.

I watched as Greg’s face softened. “Come ‘ere.” He took my hand in his and pulled me back down to the sofa. This time, I landed in his arms. My shoulder rested on his chiseled chest so that my head fit perfectly into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I felt. I can’t really say for certain what I felt. It was different. This moment was different from any other moment we’d ever shared. His apology was sincere. I could feel that, somehow, in his body.

He gently kissed the cartilage of my ear and then began to nip it with his teeth. “I want this.”

“So do I,” I confirmed as I traced his pectoral muscles with my middle finger.

“You know this is difficult for me.” He mingled his fingers with mine.

“What is it people say?” I began, “that difficult things are sometimes worth it? I suppose I might have hoped you’d feel that way about me.”

“You know I do,” Greg assured as he kissed the top of my head. “You know a few solicitors?” he asked, pulling his wedding ring off his left hand, placing it in his pocket.

“More than a few,” I hummed. “You would actually need to phone one, though,” I added, looking up at him.

Greg’s rugged hand cupped my jawline as our eyes met. “I promise. I will. Tomorrow morning.”

“And then?” I prompted.

“And then, if ya’ agree to get rid of a suit of armor or two,” he said, motioning around the house, “I’ll live here.”

My décor was archaic. I fancied myself a collector of art and antiquities. It was clean, structured. Greg often called it: “cold.” I summoned the courage to admit, “I would sacrifice anything.”

Greg reached his arm around my shoulder and began unfastening my waistcoat. I felt every hair on my body stand on end as he leaned down to kiss me. He gently used his hot tongue to part my lips. I welcomed him with pleasure. His entire body was solid, strong, like a rock quarry made into the shape of a beautiful man. His lips, though, were pillow-soft.

“Do you wanna tell people?” He interrupted my thoughts.

“You know I don’t care for people,” I remarked as I reached up to brush his silver hair from his forehead.

“Right. But maybe Sherlock?”

I pulled my body away from his enough to offer a cantankerous look.

“Oh, come on. He doesn’t know about us,” Greg said with the slightest bit of indignation.

I maintained eye contact, raising my right brow.

“He would’ve said somethin’ by now,” Greg insisted.

I used his hard chest as leverage and pushed myself up to a seated position. “We may function in this world as machines, Gregory,” I began, “but Mummy did teach us manners.” I removed my silk waistcoat, folding it neatly onto the arm of the sofa. My brother had known about my attraction to and encounters with the Inspector for many years. We had even discussed it briefly on a phone call he’d made to me from Dartmoor several years ago.

“Sign for divorce and move in, then,” I instructed with a sudden surge of authority as I stood and began removing my cufflinks.

“Anything else you’d like me to do, Mr. Holmes?” He stood and walked toward me, backing me into the ornately carved wooden door.

Alone with Greg, behind closed doors, was the only place where I felt little need for supremacy. He did seem to relish it, though, when I took charge. I arched my back toward the door and unfastened my shirt down to the bottom. “It’s been quite a long day, Detective Inspector.” He was a doltish man, of course, like most others. He could, however, glean information from me almost as quickly as I could from the rest of the world.

“You want me to wash it off ya’?” He twirled his fingers in the tuft of ginger hair on my chest. Unlike the hair on my head, my body hair hadn’t darkened with age. Excluding my personal physician, Greg was the only man who knew that. He was the only man with whom I’d ever been entirely vulnerable - and completely intimate.

“Please, “I said simply as I took his hand, leading him out of the sitting room in the direction of the shower.

He stopped me in the hallway, pushing me against the wall. He held my wrists at my sides as he softly bit my neck. We’d spent weeks in conflict, and my body was anxious for this resolution. As I felt his pelvis thrust firmly against mine, I heard a mechanical hum. Then, I felt it. Both of our mobiles were vibrating in our pockets at the same time. I emitted a long, frustrated breath as Greg began to back away from me. “For one night. Just one night,” I reiterated, “could we please not fret over little brother?”

Greg shot me a condemnatory glance as he reached for his phone. His look acknowledged both my insensitivity as well as the arrogance of my deduction that Sherlock was responsible for the interruption. He rolled his eyes as he answered, “Hello?”

I pulled out my phone to see one word: _Secretary?_

“Alright, Sherlock. Yes. I’m on my way,” Greg reassured as he disconnected the call.

“I’ll see you there then?” Greg probed as he buttoned his shirt and combed through his hair with his fingers.

“London Aquarium,” I said, knowing the probability that my dishy clod wasn’t entirely sure where he’d need back-up.

There was no way even I could understand at that moment what that phone call would do. One call from Sherlock to Greg’s mobile. It would change everything. If I had known, I would have stopped Greg from leaving. I could have encouraged him to send a Sergeant in his place.

“Damn you, Sherlock,” I shouted toward the ceiling as Greg left earshot. Someone would likely die tonight and if it wasn’t Sherlock, so help me! 

*******

I awoke in a cold sweat. I’d been dreaming. I’d been remembering, rather. There was an alarm waking me. I moved my hand, only to feel the tug of medical tape on my skin. My eyes opened to the glare of fluorescents. I was in hospital - attached to an excess of monitors, one of which was letting off the ghastly distress signal. 

Had all that horror actually happened?

I scanned my body. I felt no twinge of pain - no injuries or maladies. I was able to focus on my cardiovascular function enough to conclude that I wasn’t compromised by medications and was being pumped full of saline.

It was real. It had all been real.

Why was I here?

A young, blonde nurse walked through the door and stopped at my bedside. “Awake, are we now, Mr. Holmes?” she declared with a distinctive Irish lilt.

I nodded my head slightly to signal both affirmation and annoyance. “I’m not hurt. Why am I here?”

“Oh, now don’t you worry about a thing, Mr. Holmes. We were just told to observe you for a while. Seems you had a bit of a fright.”

Told by whom?” I quickly scanned what of the corridor I could see. No one.

“Scotland Yard. They’re quite worried about ya’ down there. Do you remember what happened?” She was cheerful. She began filling a glass with tepid water from a pitcher that had most certainly been sitting on the nearby tray since my arrival.

“Scotland Yard,” I repeated without acknowledging she had asked a question. This was Greg’s doing. Some sort of power play? That was unlike him. Still, though, why was I here?

Suddenly, I heard voices outside the room. “Yes Inspector. He’s just woke up,” an East Londoner confirmed in a particularly deep tone.

“Good. Thank you for everything, Oliver.” That was Greg. The sound of his voice created a tightness in my chest, and the increase in my heart rate was audible, given one of the machines to which I was strapped.

Greg entered the room. The cuffs of his trousers were covered in soot and mud. The loose skin below his soulful eyes was darker than usual. He was exhausted. He was worried.

I spoke first. “Is everyone alive?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward me slowly.

“Well, I ought to leave you to your witness, Inspector,” interjected the nurse. I’d already forgotten she was in the room. She scurried out the door awkwardly, latching it as she disappeared from sight.

“Why am I in hospital?” If he didn’t like my first inquiry, perhaps he’d answer this one.

Moving closer, he wrapped both of his weathered hands around my left wrist. “We need to talk, Myc.”


	2. Chapter 2

He had the gall to touch me? He had the unmitigated nerve to take my arm delicately as though we were - lovers?

It had been nearly a year since he’d been this near to me. Not since that damned phone call from Sherlock bidding us to the aquarium. I must have been as tired as Greg looked. My eyes wouldn’t stay open without my full concentration, and I was again drifting back into the memory of that night.

It had been perfect. The heat of his attraction to me pressed against my inner thighs, throbbing through both of our trousers. The smell of his cologne as I kissed his neck. The warmth in my stomach as he pressed his groin harder and harder against me. We were perfectly primed to lather one another with soap from head to toe with the improvident purpose of making each other as unclean as possible. We would have been enraptured by one another under the steady fall of water and steam.

We were both fulfilling our professional duties by reporting to the aquarium. Who was to know that we’d be there to watch Greg’s friend, Mary, as she liked to be called, take her final breaths? Who would have imagined there existed a woman who would lay down her own life to spare Sherlock’s?

I surveyed Greg with alarm in my eyes as he watched Dr. Watson grieve over her body. I watched as his resolve became fissured. Each of Dr. Watson’s sobs chipped away another, then another promise Greg had made to me.

“Mycroft?” His voice broke through my retrospection.

I opened my eyes and immediately pulled my arm from his grasp. “I’m growing impatient, Detective Inspector. I’ll ask once more. Why am I here?” I spoke as I would to any other simpleton. He didn’t deserve my favor, let alone any bit of humanity I might be able to muster. 

“Look, Myc, I’m sorry. We had to be sure you were okay. And I couldn’t stay with you. I had to take care of things, and this was the easiest way to keep an eye on you. We talked when you got here. You don’t remember.”

I used the bed’s controls to bring myself to a ninety-degree angle. The last thing I remembered was my brother preparing to shoot himself clean through the brain. “My name, Inspector Lestrade, is Mycroft. It has been at least thirty-five years since anyone has been able to justify a need to - keep an eye on me. And I am perfectly alright. I was locked in a room. That’s hardly cause to hospitalize someone.”

Greg reached for my arm again, but I moved it abruptly before he could make contact with my skin or the poplin barrel cuff of my shirt. “You were almost killed. By your brother. You could have been in shock.”

“To be completely accurate, I was nearly killed by my sister,” I corrected. “I’m not in shock. I don’t have a trauma syndrome. I am perfectly capable now, as I always have been, of contending with Eurus’ onslaughts.”

“I just wanted to be sure you were looked after.” His voice, then, dropped several decibels as he continued, “I always try to protect you.”

“Laughable,” I thought to myself without saying it out loud. I chose my words deliberately, “Well, then, in the future, perhaps you’ll find the solicitude to protect me from you,” I chided.

He awkwardly adjusted his jacket, clearly not sure how to respond. His voice was again hushed, but there was now panic in his tone. “Look, Myc, that’s why I said we need to talk.”

“Then let’s talk.” I sneered.

He immediately started, “Well, I just think you need to kno-”

“You will speak when spoken to,” I interrupted, “if you wish to avoid a report of unwarranted behavior being offered to your Chief Super.”

His eyes glassed over as I claimed my authority. He stared out the window at the sunrise, realising that I wouldn’t be surrendering to his efforts.

“Tell me the situation at Sherrinford.”

“It’s -uh - we’re - we’re securing it.”

“Sherlock?” I prompted.

“He’s fine,” Greg said with confidence. “Worried about you, though.”

“How fraternal,” I droned in response. “Dr. Watson?”

“Rattled, but fine. We pulled ’im out of a well.”

“And?” There was more, of course.

“And bones. A child. A boy.”

“His name, if I recall, was Victor,” I commented. “Eurus?”

His voice cracked as he replied, “She’s being evaluated. Sherlock broke through to her or something. Says she’s different. Farther away.”

“Indeed she is, and no one will succeed in reaching her,” I guaranteed.

He offered no reaction but then informed, “We’ve had to call your parents.”

“Pardon me? Your office most certainly has a record of my specific orders never to contact them regarding Eurus.” Had he actually contacted my parents?

“We needed next of kin, and you and Sherlock were compromised,” he explained.

“I’ll thank you for getting me out of here, then, Inspector, so that I can deal with the mess that has certainly made.”

“I already asked them to start your discharge papers,” he assured me. “Your mum seemed fine when I spoke with her. Maybe a little confused. A little angry. But, you’re right. You should talk to them. But, later - well, tonight. Could we-?” His guilt caused him to be even more slow-witted than usual. Despite that, and regardless of the anger I felt toward him, he was still undeniably tantalizing.

“Tonight,” I began, “I believe you have a wife to attend to.” I tried not to imagine him sitting up with her in the evening, toying with her hair as he had mine.

He stood silently at my side, holding himself differently than usual. There was no confidence or braggadocio in his posture. He was guilty, ashamed.

“If there’s nothing else of relevance, you’re free to leave,” I suggested.

He wrung his hands with exasperation. “Oh, come on, Mycroft! You have to talk to me!”

As Greg’s voice rang in the void of the sterile room, two nurses entered and began disconnecting the wires from my chest and arms. As long as they remained present, he wouldn’t press matters. A third attendant brought a clipboard for me to sign in cognizance of the ridiculous risks they believed could result from my departure. I hastily scribbled my name and stood to find my black Brunello Cucinellis tucked beneath the bed. I quickly put them on as the nurses continued to straighten the machines and poles. I started toward the door, buttoning my shirt as I walked. “Good day, Inspector.”

As I passed him, he cleared his throat. Out of habit, I stopped and glanced in his direction. Without a word, he reached out to hand me my umbrella. 

** ***  **

I heavily inched my way up the staircase. Two days - I’d spent two days reasoning and negotiating with my parents. It had ended in a visit to Sherrinford so that they could be with all their children at once. Our intelligence stemmed from our mother, but, unlike her progeny, she was an appallingly frequent victim of sentiment.

I was ready to welcome sleep. As I reached the door of my bedroom, I felt my body involuntarily relax. To my dismay, though, that release lasted only seconds, for as I opened the door, I saw an envelope resting on the foot of my bed.

I towed myself to the bed and sat down next to the envelope. In Greg’s distinctively haphazard penmanship, it was addressed simply, “Mycroft.” I suddenly remembered he still had a key.

“Oh, fine,” I murmured as I reached for the envelope. If I was ever going to rest, it was probably best to deal with this first. I slid my thumb under the seal and opened the flap. I imagined his agile tongue having licked that adhesive. As I unfolded the paper, a trace of cigarette smoke caught my nose. I couldn’t help but stop to savor it for a moment.

My memory flashed to my kitchen, about two years ago. We had spent most of the night together in the cemetery with Sherlock. Greg was covered in dirt and sweat. After watching him dig in the dark for hours, I was desperate for him. I’d pinned him against the counter as soon as we’d entered the room. In one motion, I ripped his shirt open and licked the perspiration from his chest. His hands clutched my backside as he pushed his body even harder against mine. I spun him around and leaned him over the countertop, reaching around his waist to unfasten his belt with my still gloved hands. His impatience matched mine. He moved my hands out of the way, pulling down his trousers.

“Fill me up, Mycroft,” he groaned as he reached around to unfasten my trousers as well. “And keep the gloves on,” he requested as he slid my trousers off my waist.

He was the only reason I wore those gloves. He told me once they were “kinky.” As I raised his hips higher, I ran the tip of my tongue down his spine, eventually stopping to use my saliva to prepare him for what I had to offer. It wasn’t the best option, of course, but neither of us was willing to wait. He whimpered as I bedewed him. As I stood upright, Greg reached for my right arm, moving my hand to the front of him. As I gripped him in my fist and arched my back, preparing to indulge, I rested my chin on his shoulder. He inhaled, readying himself for me. I breathed in unison with him. His skin smelled of earth and cigarettes. 

Cigarettes. The same odor of this letter. I opened my eyes and warily read:

_My dearest Mycroft,_

_I know you’ll never consider me an intelligent man. I can’t talk or write with elegant words the way you can. But I am an honest man. So, even though this letter might seem inadequate to you, I can promise you that it’s honest. I can promise you that I mean every word. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that happened this week - everything you went through. But I’m even more sorry for this entire year. I let you down. I just couldn’t handle the guilt I felt watching Mary die. John was a wreck. His heart was broken. How could I walk away and disregard my wife by calling for a divorce? I thought I was doing the right thing by trying to make it work. I thought if she ended up at gunpoint like Mary, that I’d regret it if I hadn’t tried. I thought I’d regret leaving her for you. That sounds horrible, but it’s the truth. But this week, I realize that I was wrong. It’s you I regret not being with. You were the one staring down the end of a barrel. You were the one I risked losing. And I’ve never been so terrified. I’m writing this in the car park. I just started divorce proceedings. I don’t want to live without you, and I wish you wouldn’t make me. I’ve been told you were seen socially with Lady Smallwood. If you’ve discovered something new, I can respect that and wish you the best. But God, I hope not. I miss you._

_Greg_

That was it. It ended there. No real closing or suggestion for a way forward. Not at all an intelligent man. He wasn’t mistaken.

Those words. “I miss you.” They did affect me.

I would sleep. Perhaps in the morning, I’d be able to make a clear decision as to whether or not I wanted to reply.

** *** **

The morning had come too quickly.

I settled my pocket watch in its pouch and straightened the trinity knot around my neck. In an unexpected way, I found comfort in the idea of returning to work. After the events at Sherrinford, some regularity was startlingly inviting.

I made my way to the dining room, where I had already set a table of soft boiled egg and toast. I sipped a bit of Assam as I slid into the high backed wooden chair.

It was a great room, and the clink of my knife touching my plate echoed loudly. I’d moved into the home nearly fifteen years prior. Within that time, no one else had ever joined me for a meal in that room. Over the course of the past year, during my estrangement with Greg, I had found myself assuring my brother that I was not lonely. I was, though, without question, alone.

I ate speedily and ignored two intrusive texts from Sherlock while clearing the dishes to the kitchen. As I reached for my coat and attaché, I nearly fell into the wall. I was startled by a thunderous rapping on the door. If it was little brother, he was most assuredly high.

I dropped my case and walked toward the door. As I opened it, a potent fetor of butane overwhelmed me. As I tried to exhale it, I saw Greg standing at my stoop, dripping wet and covered in blood.


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t open your front door,” Greg said breathlessly before I could react. 

He was the source of the odor. That’s what was dripping off of him. The blood wasn’t his own, but there was a great lot of it. Given the pattern on his arms and chest, he’d carried someone to safety - someone with multiple puncture wounds, who had lost a life-threatening amount of blood. Actually, the blood near his abdomen  _ was  _ his own. It was still flowing. There was another scent - floral - dancing on the wind with the lighter fluid.

“Is she alive?”

“Maybe you should sit down,” he suggested. He thought my concern was of a personal nature. At least I knew my plan, underhanded though it may have been, had worked.

I  _ was  _ concerned, though - concerned about him. “I think that’s a luxury that would better serve you right now,” I said, opening the door completely and stepping aside as to invite him in.

Without a word, he locked his eyes with mine before walking past me to sit in my kitchen. He tried desperately not to make a sound, but I could see his body cringe with pain as he folded onto the chair. “How long ago did that happen?” I asked, pointing my nose toward his left oblique.

He stared at me for a moment, apparently surprised at my reasonably personable tone and genuine compassion. I took the opportunity to fetch a few tea towels from a cupboard. “A few hours ago,” he finally stated.

That’s what I had expected. Greg needed proper medical attention. I walked toward him, handing off the tea towels. “You should move your shirt before it sticks to the wound.”

“She’s alive, Mycroft, but she’s critical,” he explained as he unbuttoned his soaked shirt. “I’m sorry,” he added, his neck dancing, trying to catch my gaze.

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had somehow encountered a minimum of 9 blades - no, iron stakes - and lost at least two liters of blood, enough to be on watch for exsanguination. That estimate didn’t account for the likelihood of internal hemorrhage caused by the puncture that had reached her right kidney.

Greg was apologizing with sympathy because he suspected I was romantically entangled with this woman. “She is a business contact, Greg,” I clarified. My evening with Lady Smallwood was, of course, an absolute effort to create jealousy within my silver-haired ex-companion. The possible vindication of that seemed far less necessary in this moment.

“Oh. Okay,” Greg muttered as he began to apply pressure to his injury with a towel. 

He had removed his shirt and had dropped it on the floor. His shoulders were quite broad for his smaller stature. Usually, they were a beacon of shelter and comfort in my eyes. At this moment, though, they seemed weak, despite their vast span. His demeanor and comportment both signaled a feeling of defeat.

“My front door?” I was going to have to coax the information that couldn’t be deduced, as he was wholly incapable of distinguishing between those categories for himself.

“Tripwire,” he began. “If that door opens from the inside, everything within a square kilometer blows.”

“How?” 

“Nitroglycerin sprayed onto the water lines. The tripwire ignites flares set up every 9 meters or so. We’ve got guys out there trying to get to it all.”

“And the lighter fluid?” I asked, remembering that his entire body was soaked in it.

“Pumped into the sprinkler system in Lady Smallwood’s office.”

She had tried to escape the flames by climbing out the fifth-story window but had fallen on the wrought iron fencing.

Greg continued, as he watched me pull together the remaining information, “We found a bomb at Downing Street. It’s gotta be a terror cell.” 

I’d forgotten how endearingly inept he could be in these situations. “No,” I said simply.

“Some random person is targeting the most powerful people in Britain?” He didn’t understand how he could be wrong but knew for certain I could not.

My phone rang in my pocket. “A bit late, aren’t we, brother mine? Slow today?” I charged as I brought the mobile to my ear.

Sherlock scoffed at my dismissal of his abilities. “Do not leave home,” he instructed.

“I will soon enough, little brother. They’re neutralizing things as we speak.”

“They’re snipers planted around London, Mycroft. Do not leave home,” he expounded.

“Guns for hire?” I observed, though my inflection denoted a bit of inquiry.

“Just stay put, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, I have control of every camera and surveillance service in this city. I’m not susceptible to a few maladroit marksmen.”

“Stop and think,  _ brother mine _ ,” he quoted me with sarcasm. I could almost see him childishly wobbling his curly head as he said it. “I am the fastest avenue to a solution. Your cooperation would be  _ lovely.”  _ His gibe didn’t inspire the approbation for which he was reaching.

“As you wish,” I matched his trenchancy.

“No one enters or exits your property, Mycroft. Please.”

My eyes darted immediately to the glorified Bobby sitting in my kitchen. I could feel my insides squirm. “No one enters or exits,” I agreed, reluctantly.

** *** **

“I want eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?” I neared the end of my phone conversation as I noticed Greg shuffle into my parlour. “And Dr. Watson.”

“Lucky thing, isn’t it?” Greg suggested as he took the seat opposite me in front of the unlit fireplace.

“Hmmm,” I reacted without a hint of confirmation nor query as I disconnected my call. I didn’t look toward him.

“That I had some extra clothes here.”

“Lucky,” I repeated as I turned my eyes in his direction. He was dressed only in joggers, still holding a towel to the lacerated side of his freshly cleaned torso. He had cut himself on the bulletproof, reinforced glass of Lady Smallwood’s office window.

“Thanks for letting me shower,” he added.

Without a reply, I stood and moved my leather chair over to face his and pulled the gauze and scissors I’d scrounged up earlier from the mantelpiece. I suspected he’d need sutures but was confident enough in my rudimentary medical knowledge to dress the wound in a manner that would stop the bleeding. I took the towel from his still unsteady hands and began wrapping his frame. “It should feel tight but not irritating,” I explained as I taped the end of the fabric to his skin. Having showered with my toiletries, he didn’t smell of his usual cologne or soaps. He had no artificial fragrance on him at all. He smelled, to put it plainly, like a man. I knew well the science that could explain why that natural musk appealed to me so, but it still caught me off guard.

“It’s perfect,” he assured quietly. “Mycroft,” he continued, taking my hand in his before I could move away. 

“I know, Greg,” I said quickly, not wanting to give him the chance to offer another apology. Knowing that both of our lives had been threatened was, to my astonishment, softening me. 

“I left a letter for you,” he mentioned, still not looking away from me. I stood and moved my chair back to its usual place.

“I read it.”

“I wish things were different,” he went on.

“So do I,” I agreed. I sat in my chair, again facing the unlit fireplace. Greg’s eyes were still on me. I used to revel in that. I knew how to influence both his emotions and his desires. Knowing his attention was fixed on me was usually a sure way to maximize my impact. Now though, I was still not entirely sure I wanted his emotion or desire.

After a few moments of silence, I heard him exhale audibly. I turned to watch as he finally took his gaze from me to the half charred logs. His hair was still damp, which made it all the more inviting. The feeling of my hands in his hair was one of my favorite human experiences. 

His hands, even resting on his lap, were still shaking. I stood from my chair, relocating myself so that I was immediately behind his. “Maybe after a few days, once you’ve settled, we can talk through things,” I offered, in as comforting a tone as I was capable. “You had quite an experience today.”

“And it’s not over is it,” he asked as he reached his right hand to his left shoulder and directed his palm toward the ceiling. I accepted the invitation, placing my left hand there to rest. I reached my right arm around the winged back of the leather chair to knead his trapezius. At my touch, his shoulders relaxed, his head fell softly to the back of the chair, and his hand squeezed mine. My height allowed me to lean over the chair and nuzzle his right ear. He hummed with contentment. I closed my eyes and kissed his temple. It felt good to touch him. My lips on his skin induced a meridian response. I savored the shiver on my spine as I slowly pulled away slightly. I took a moment to brush my nose and cheek in his beautiful hair. He exhaled loudly again, gripping my left hand even tighter. 

He had hurt me - terribly. I never liked to admit that I cared. It was one of the most significant human weaknesses of which I was aware. If I had to have any amount of fragility, though, I was quite content with it centering around him.

“I need to check the status of things,” I explained, removing myself from our contact and walking toward my study. 

** *** **

I was just about to pour tea, and another rapping started at the back door.

“Cabinet Secretary.” Sherlock was out of breath as he managed to utter the two words before the door was even opened.

“Missing?” I asked to confirm my deduction.

“For three days. Can we take your car?” 

“Of course.” I quickly texted for the car to pick us up.

“Scotland Yard!” Sherlock yelled so that he could be heard in any room of my expansive home. 

Greg rushed into the kitchen. “They hit Scotland Yard now?” he asked in a panic.

“No. No. No,” Sherlock yelled in frustration. “You’re Scotland Yard. We’re going to Downing Street. And it’s  _ she _ , Greg, not they. Do try to keep up.”

Greg looked at me in astonishment. “She?” 

I nodded in confirmation. I had told him earlier it wasn’t a terror cell.

The car pulled into the circular drive as I dialed my mobile. “This is Mycroft Holmes. I want an explanation now,” I ordered as I slid into the back seat. “How is it that the Cabinet Secretary has been missing for three days, and I was not made aware of it?” I found myself roaring into the phone, now seated between Sherlock and Greg. “I’m Mycroft Holmes; my brother is Sherlock Holmes. My life is always in danger. That is no excuse,” I barked. “I want someone waiting for me with a full briefing at Downing Street. Immediately.”

Greg and Sherlock were both staring at me with grins on their faces as I placed my phone back in my pocket. I sighed, rolling my eyes. “There’s no point in having power if you can’t use it,” I elucidated. 

We all sat in silence for a few moments. As soon as I began to think how nice it was that Sherlock was so quiet, he interrupted the calmness.

“So boys,” Sherlock said in a sing-song tone. “How are things?” 

“Sherlock,” I warned.

“What? Oh,” he crooned, “still trouble in paradise? I figured you’d had enough time to kiss and make up this morning. I tried to make it simple for you.” 

Greg looked down at his shoes.

“Where’s John, Sherlock?” I asked merely to match the suggestivity of his comments. Dr. Watson was at Barts. I’d had him watched all day. 

Before he could answer, there was a deafening noise, and the car stopped abruptly, then started again. We had a flat tire.

“Mr. Holmes!” The driver was alarmed. 

“I leaned over Greg’s lap to gain a view of the car’s side mirror. The vehicle behind us was speeding toward us. Hanging out the passenger’s window was a hand holding a gun. Whoever it was had shot the tire. 


	4. Chapter 4

As I leaned farther toward the glass to glean more information from the vehicle and weapon, another shot rang out. Within seconds, Greg had pushed me toward Sherlock, covering my body with his. The rear passenger side window shattered.  
Greg yelled for the car to stop. "Don't move," he instructed, squeezing my arm, then exited the vehicle. "Police!" he yelled, aiming his sidearm at the still moving Bugatti. It pulled up beside us. Greg was steady as a rock. His training, instincts, and adrenaline had temporarily erased the trauma from this morning's events.  
Slowly, I reached for my umbrella that was resting on the floor of the car.  
Sherlock watched me. "No." His tone was hushed.  
I could still see the car that had pulled up beside us. A woman stepped out; her weapon pointed directly at Greg. As I expected, she was of average height, athletic build, and dressed in combat clothes. Her long black hair was tied into a ponytail. Bulletproof padding was visible under her jacket.  
Greg muttered under his breath, "I don't have a clean shot." Pedestrians were beginning to gather on the footway opposite.  
"She's padded. Your only kill shot is a headshot. Not worth it," whispered Sherlock.  
"Where is he?" the woman demanded of Greg in a thick Israeli accent.  
"Who?"  
"Holmes," she said, adjusting her finger on the trigger of her revolver.  
Sherlock opened his door.  
"No. Sherlock. Please," I pleaded. He ignored me and stepped out of the vehicle.  
The woman looked in his direction but kept her aim on Greg. "Mycroft Holmes," she yelled in frustration, clearly having identified Sherlock on sight.  
Greg and Sherlock moved their attention from her long enough to look at one another and close the back doors of my car in unison. "Take him home. Now!" Greg instructed my driver, using his free hand to pat the roof of the vehicle.  
My driver sped away as quickly as was possible with a deflated tire. I watched in the mirror as Greg's figure grew smaller, still in a standoff with the armed woman.

*******

I'd been home for nearly an hour and had heard nothing. I wasn't able to reach anyone by phone or text. I found that I was capable of nothing but pacing in front of my parlour windows.  
Faintly, I could hear an engine. The back door opened and then latched. I passed through the parlour into the sitting room and picked up my umbrella from its stand.  
"Myc," I heard Greg warn, "it's me."  
At the sound of his voice, my grip on the brolly loosened.  
His pace quickened as he walked toward me. He stopped abruptly once he was less than half a meter away. He reached out to grab my biceps. "Are you okay?" he asked awkwardly. It was apparent his instinct was to embrace me, but he wasn't sure how it would be received.  
"Fine," I assured him. "What happened?" I probed. I knew the woman we'd encountered was merely a hired hand, but that's all I knew. I'd no idea of what she may have been capable.  
"You're not gonna worry 'bout that," he said. "We have men on it. And Sherlock." He stopped, clearly having more to say but hesitant to say it. "Your job is to stay home and safe." Another pause. He looked behind me and shuffled his feet nervously. "And I'm your protection."  
"My protection," I parrotted.  
"Official detail. You don't leave my sight until this woman is taken care of." This time he looked down. He spoke again, but almost in a whisper. "I hope that won't be a burden."  
I closed the gap between us, taking his hand in mine. "There's no one in the world who could make me feel safer."

*******

"Is there anything else you need?" Sergeant Donovan asked as she placed three large market bags in the kitchen.  
I watched her from the corner of the room as Greg answered, "No. That'll do it."  
The Sergeant nodded in confirmation and headed toward the door. "Sally," called Greg.  
"Hmmm," she hummed inquisitively as she spun around.  
"Keep an eye on Sherlock."  
"I always do, don't I?" she said matter of factly as she exited and latched the door behind her.  
I had very little fresh food in my house, and Greg insisted that takeaway wasn't a particularly safe option. He was correct. He'd had Sergeant Donovan bring supplies that would last the two of us approximately four days.  
I walked toward the bags to unload the contents.  
Greg grabbed my arm as it reached for a box. "Go sit down. Relax. I've got it."  
"You're sure?"  
"Yeah. I'm gonna throw things together and get a hotpot stewing for later. Relax. You never relax."  
"That's not completely true," I contradicted as I walked from the kitchen into the sitting room.  
Maybe it was true. I stood in the center of the room, faced with a sofa, three wooden chairs, and a chaise that I couldn't recall anyone ever using. My instinct was to sit up in a high back wooden chair - with a book, a file, or to give orders on my mobile. "Relax," I thought to myself, making my way to the far end of the sofa.  
I sat down. What now? I heard Greg clanging around the kitchen. I wished he'd tell me everything that was going on so that I could help to combat and solve the problem. More so, I struggled with the idea of not having eyes on Sherlock. He was always on watch. I consistently tracked his movements.  
I knew Greg wouldn't tell me anything. In fact, he had requested not to be briefed on anything unless it was relevant to my safety. He was determined to protect me. This wasn't the first time.  
My eyes drifted shut. All I could see was the image of him pointing his pistol at that woman.  
I often used his job as evidence that I was superior to him in most ways. He, after all, did - leg work. The truth of it, though, was that I admired him. He wasn't a man of great intellect. His instincts and ability to quickly extrapolate information were, of course, rubbish in comparison to mine - but whose weren't? His gallantry, however, was something of which I'd always be in awe. His bravery in the face of physical danger never wavered. I recalled the way he threw his body over mine in the car. He did it without hesitation, without thought. He'd spent no time considering his own mortality. His instinct in moments of urgency was to protect the well-being of everyone but himself. I had once believed that bravery was equivalent to stupidity. Greg made me feel differently.  
"Nope. Stand up," Greg ordered, walking into the room.  
"What?"  
"Come on," he coaxed with his hands as I looked at him in confusion.  
I obliged. Greg stood in front of me, removing layer by layer of clothing down to my Buttercloth shirt. "You can't relax in a three-piece suit."  
I always wore a three-piece suit. The most I ever did privately in my sitting room was strip it down to the waistcoat.  
"Better?" he asked. Before I had time to reply, he interjected, "probably not. You've got garters on too, don't ya'? Maybe just go lie down."  
"Greg...."  
He interrupted again, "Don't argue. Go. No reason at all for you to be dressed and sitting up."  
I looked at him intently. He was clearly fully functioning, but his eyes resembled someone in suspended animation. He was on duty. That's what it was. He was trying to separate his "official detail" assignment from our intimate dynamic. His movements resembled that of a child's toy that had been wound - mechanical and deliberate.  
"Following my lead, I suppose, after our exchange in hospital," I considered silently.  
I reached for his shoulder. "Come talk with me?"  
The haze left his eyes as they darted to look out his periphery at my hand. Then he looked up at me. "Ten minutes," he suggested, patting my hand and quickly walking toward the kitchen.

*******

I found myself sitting up in my blue satin pyjamas, nose buried in a novel when Greg entered my bedroom.  
He was, again, in joggers and socks. The joggers were perhaps a bit too small. The waistband was a perfect fit, but the crotch was tight. His hair was mussed but presented its usual shine. His face was stubbled, and more gray hair rested below his collar bone. It covered the entirety of his center torso. His deltoids were defined, and there was a ligament always visible that strung from his left clavicle to his biceps. He was tanned, as usual. Dried blood covered the first few layers of his wrapping but was well clotted. He stood still in the doorway, arms at his sides, not quite sure how to approach me.  
I tilted my head to the empty half of the bed to my left.  
His head tilted downward as he raised his brows. Without a word, he pointed his right index finger first to himself, then to the bed.  
This was my problem, my weakness. I was wholly enslaved by how utterly adorable he could be. I smiled and reached out my hand.  
He matched my grin and sauntered toward me, clearly giving up his previous efforts to separate personal and professional. He took my hand in his left and crawled under the eiderdown, moving his pistol from the back of his joggers onto the bedside table. He then took my book from my hands and placed it next to his weapon.  
We sat for a few moments, fingers intertwined, looking at each other. The silence seemed to reverberate around the room.  
Greg moved my hand to his lap, covering our entangled fingers with his right hand. "Mycroft Holmes," he started, looking me intently in the eye, "I am a coward and a failure. I hurt you, and I hate myself for it."  
I clutched his hand tighter, remembering my reflections on his fearlessness. "You hurt me more than I knew I had the capacity for," I replied. "But, there is one thing in this world, Greg, that you for certain are not - and _that_ is a coward."  
His shoulders dropped from strong, broad, and bold to vanquished. "Only a coward would have done that."  
"Done what? Make one last attempt at honoring a commitment? Try to wash his hands of an extramarital tryst before it got the better of him?" I released his hand, moving mine to rest on my lap. Now, I was beginning to feel self-reproach. "Those sound very much like the actions of a good and honorable man to me," I admitted.  
"Good and honorable men don't deal with their wives' infidelity by bedding other men. Good and honorable men don't get married when they're not in love, Myc."  
Love wasn't an emotion I was certain I ever fully discerned. I cared for my brother deeply and worried about him constantly. I could go no more than moments without something reminding me of Greg or experiencing a desire to be near him. Was that love?  
"We all do the best we can with whatever we're equipped at the time," I suggested.  
Greg shifted so that he could cup my face in his sun-dried hands. "Mycroft," he said, pausing for so long it felt as though he was trying to unearth my soul with his eyes. He cleared his throat, signaling to me that his words were prepared. "Everything we talked about, everything we planned - I want all of it. I never stopped wanting it. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm not too proud to ask for it. And the only thing I deserve less than your forgiveness is the only thing I want even more."  
I cocked my head and crinkled my brow with a genuine question in my eyes.  
"You," he said.  
My eyes involuntarily closed. My lungs reflexively inhaled - as if I was trying to take him in somehow. This. Perhaps this sensation of ice and fire running through my veins simultaneously - was love?  
I felt his hands stiffen as his smooth lips delicately touched mine. My mouth naturally opened at his touch. My body weakened as his hands moved from my face to my hips, pushing me to lie flat on my back. Greg's body rested atop mine. I could feel the peaks and concaves of his defined chest as it pressed against mine. I ran my hands along his firm forearms and then embraced his rib cage, feeling the gauze against my skin. His kiss was deep, warm, and familiar. The taste of his mouth felt like something that belonged only to me. He broke away from my lips, lowering himself to kiss my chest, my upper abdomen, and then just below my navel, all on top of my satin shirt. He again shifted, this time to lie next to me, propped on his elbow. He leaned in, pecked my lips again, kissed the mole on my right cheekbone, and then took my earlobe in his teeth with such gentle care I could just feel it. With his husky basso profundo, he quietly breathed into my ear, "Will you forgive me?" 


	5. Chapter 5

Forgive him? 

I lost myself in his eyes for a moment. He mistook my silence for hesitation.

“Mycroft, I took you for granted. I guess I just assumed that, no matter what, you’d always be there. And that’s the stupidest thing. Because you’re -you’re you. I mean, I know you’re not out shoppin’ ’round or anything, but God - who wouldn’t be in awe of you?” Before I could even consider replying, he continued. “Do you remember when we met?”

His hands were trembling again. My failure to reply quickly to his plea for forgiveness made him excitable. 

“I do.”

“You were tryin’ to be all mysterious. Sendin’ a car to take me to your office.”

“Perhaps a slight power complex,” I admitted.

Greg leaned in and kissed the back of my hand. Smiling, he continued. “I’d heard of ya’, but didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t. And, of course, I knew Sherlock. But, when I walked into your office, and you started talking and trying to manipulate me, I got sucked in. It was your eyes. You act important. Well, you  _ are  _ important. But, your eyes give you away. Every emotion that you won’t talk about. Everything you worry about. Everything that hurts you or makes ya’ happy. You can keep a straight, proper face all day, Mycroft, but your eyes - they show your hand. People think you’re cold, but you’re actually the opposite.”

I stopped him talking by placing two fingers against his lips. He wanted me to forgive him. I suppose I already had. This moment was a perfect example of why I had spent every night of the last year thinking - or dreaming -about him. Whenever I tried to be angry with him, he said or did something that made me want to be with him until my dying day. 

I ran my fingers through his hair, starting at his forehead and landing at his crown. “So, what do my eyes show now, Inspector?”

He leaned in again, this time kissing my neck slowly, from chin to collarbone. Maybe Heaven wasn’t the ridiculous fantasy I believed it to be. This could undoubtedly be Heaven. Greg was, at least, my own version of it.

Then, speaking incredibly slowly and quietly, he offered, “That you are a damn beautiful man who couldn’t actually be angry with me if his life depended on it.”

“Perhaps you do have the gift of deduction, after all,” I quipped. “You’re forgiven, Greg, but we still have a lot to talk about.” 

“Right. You’re right.” The more relaxed he was, the more distinct his Estuary accent became. 

“All the years you were away from your wife, and one night- one hour’s experience - just one bloody phone call - drew you back. I need to know it won’t happen again. I can’t invest in this if…”

He interrupted me. “It won’t happen again, Mycroft. I don’t know why I did that. I promise…”

“Greg, you did it because you and your wife have survived on toxic codependency since you met. It’s quite a simple psychological diagnosis.”

“Mycroft, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Explain. I’m more than happy to accept the fact that I’ll always pour my heart out to you, and you’ll say something sort of pleasant in return. And you can tell me how to do my job all you want. And you can prove time and again how much more brilliant you are than me. But don’t explain me to me. Not anymore.”

Is that what I did? Did I treat him that way? Is that how he saw me? 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I spent a year hurting you, and now I’m criticizing you.”

“Greg,” I began, “if I have ever treated you in such a manner, I am truly and deeply - sorry.” It may have been the first and only sincere apology I’d ever spoken in my life. I suppose I could be arrogant from time to time, but I certainly never intended to make Greg feel lesser.

“It’s nothing,” he replied, waving his hand as if he was helping his comments to waft away in the air. 

“I’m ready to make this permanent. I’ve no desire to continue slinking around in the dark. I don’t want even one more midnight quickie. I made a decision years ago that you were the only person whose companionship I ever wanted. Living without you for a year - not being able to call on you or speak with you - it hurt me to the core of my heart - if, in fact, I have one.”

“I’ll move mountains to make sure you never feel that way again,” he declared.

Despite what had happened, I knew that was true.

“What can I do? How can I make this work?” he asked.

“I’ve no need to make some sort of happy announcement to anyone,” I explained. “I do, however, want to be able to move in the daylight.”

“Done,” he guaranteed. “The divorce is happening, so there’s no reason to hide anything.” 

“Are you sure?” I questioned.

“What reason would there be?”

“Greg, if you haven’t noticed, I am a man.”

“Yeah. I kinda like that part.”

“You’ve made that quite evident,” I remarked with a grin. “My concern, however, is what your reaction might be if someone discovers our - relationship.”

“Mycroft, if I cared about what anyone thought of me, I wouldn’t let your brother humiliate me all the time.” 

“I’m serious, Greg.”

“I know you are. And sure. I guess I’ll probably end up having to come out to some people. But I don’t want to talk about other people now. This is about you and me.”

“Do at least bear in mind that if your Chief Superintendent learns that you’ve been seen in public with me, you’ll be asked for an explanation. I am  _ me _ , after all.”

“You and me, Myc,” he insisted.

“Alright. What about an arrangement?”

“I think what we’d always been doing worked pretty good. I mean, any less than five times a week, and I might complain.” He looked at me, unable to grin without showing his teeth.

“Most amusing,” I said, rolling my eyes. I hadn’t the courage to admit to Greg, or myself, for that matter, that the thought of being together in that way again made me a bit nervous. It had been so long. Lying next to him made me crave it but also induced a bit of performance anxiety. 

My mind drifted for a second to the last time we’d been together before that phone call from Sherlock. It was his birthday. Everything was so easy and natural. It had always been. 

“I meant a living arrangement.”

“I know what you meant. And I told you before; I can live here. No problem. I know this place is a big deal for you.”

“It was an investment.”

“If you say so,” he conceded. He knew my love of architecture, art, and antiquities bound me to that home. The bookcases were a marvel as well.

“Would you truly be able to be happy here?” He thought it was cold. He’d said that before, more than once. 

Rather than answer, he opened my shirt and slid it off. The combination of satin and the touch of his fingertips sent a chill through my body. 

There was still so much to discuss. I should have stopped him. Being this close to him, though, after so many months, had dampened my resolve. He was like a magnet pulling me in.

He started at my shoulder and kissed his way down to my left wrist. He then repeated the same on my right, as I used my left hand to toy with his tailbone.

“As long as these arms are in this house,” he rubbed my biceps as he spoke, “it’ll be my own Shangri-la.”

“That was good,” I chuckled. “Very good,” I said, recognizing Greg’s valiant attempt to use a literary reference in conversation.

“Yeah, well. I meant it, didn’t I?”

“Indeed you did,” I granted, then offered a slow, deep kiss.

“So when you decide it’s safe for me to be out of your sight, you can gather things and move in. I’ll even help”

“You? Do leg work?” He smiled, showing his teeth again. “I’ll count down the minutes.”

I’d made him nervous over the last several days. He was finally at ease again and clearly reassured that I wouldn’t be snarling at him any longer.

He twirled his fingers in the pelt of my chest. It felt wonderful. I had never been an incredibly confident person. Arrogance and confidence are quite different. Sometimes his smallest actions, such as stroking my arms or kissing my chest, allowed me to see myself through Greg’s eyes. 

“Ask ya’ a question?” I heard him say as he nuzzled my neck.

“By all means.”

“Lady Smallwood.” He stopped for several seconds. “Was that - was that a date?” 

“Only in as much as I wanted you to believe it was.”

“Me?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

“It was a moment of weakness, I’m afraid. I was, most assuredly, endeavoring to make you jealous.”

“It worked.” He had nothing else to say on the matter.

“It was wrong. I can admit that.”

“It’s fine,” he mumbled. Clearly, the incident had truly upset him. “While we’re talking,” he said, clearly redirecting the conversation, “I want to make sure you know something.”

It shocked me that as I spoke, he spoke in unison with me, knowing precisely what I was going to say. “I know most things.”

“Yeah. I know. I know,” he continued after me. “This isn’t really your area, though.”

“What is that?”

“Just know that you don’t have to reply or anything. But, you need to know that I love you, Mycroft.”

My entire body reacted, but every part in a different way. My feet tingled. My hands went numb. My pelvic floor contracted. My stomach warmed. My breathing quickened. My heart rate became erratic. My mouth was dry, and my cognition suffered. I found myself incapable of processing words, though I wanted to more than I have ever been able to explain since. 

Before I could even recover my breathing pattern, there was a sudden echo of wood hitting ceramic. My “protection” had set up hurdles throughout the property in order to increase the likelihood that he’d be signaled of an intruder.

Greg immediately shot to attention. 

“Shh,” he instructed as he quietly crawled out of bed, picked up his Glock, and walked, flat-footed and slowly toward the window. He parted the curtain slightly, scanning what he could see of my home’s perimeter. “Stay there,” he whispered as he moved from the window to the door. 

“Mycroft Holmes!” a voice echoed outside the room. It was a woman again, but English this time. 

Greg readied his finger on the trigger and opened the door. 

“I’m unarmed, Inspector.” 

“Why would I believe that?” Greg pressed.

“I have something far more threatening than a gun.”

Greg ignored her claim. “How did you get in?” His eyes darted toward me, knowing that I had an answer to his question.

“No building is ever completely secure when you have the right information,” she boasted. “And I have plenty of information. But I would have thought you’d figured that out by now. You certainly encountered a great deal of my handy work this morning.”

“Armed or not, you won’t get near Mycroft Holmes.”

“Well, Inspector, the truth is, I already have.”

Greg looked at the woman inquisitively, still steady with his weapon.

“I have Mr. Holmes’ laptop. From what I understand, that’s more powerful than any weapon. Even you - his big strong bodyguard - can’t protect him from me now.”

Greg didn’t relax his grip on the trigger.

“Besides, I thought you’d remember me.”

Greg’s stance remained firm, but his face creased in confusion as he looked the woman up and down, trying to recall from where he might know her.

Finally, he slowly lowered his pistol and looked toward me with disbelief.


	6. Chapter 6

I heard footsteps running up the carpeted staircase. It was the muffled clap of a set of black Saint Laurent Oxfords taking the steps two at a time. I stood up from the bed. Even in this alarming moment, Sherlock didn’t require any reason to comment on my relations with Greg.

“Sherlock!” Dr. Watson’s voice echoed downstairs.

The woman walked past Greg, shoving the bedroom door open so far that the handle hit the wall. She strutted to the corner of the room and perched herself on the bench at my dressing table. 

Greg walked toward me, keeping his body between hers and mine. He placed his pistol at the back of his joggers, clearly now believing her claim of being unarmed. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. You have quite the reputation,” she said.

Sherlock ran into the room as I considered possible responses, halting his momentum by grabbing the door frame. His face was polluted with the sort of anger only being intellectually slow could cause him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking toward Greg and me. 

“He’s fine,” replied Greg, still claiming the role of my protector. 

Sherlock nodded at me, exhaling with relief. He shifted his attention toward the woman across the room. “Well. It’s been too long, don’t you think? How  _ are  _ you, Jeanette?” He spoke her name with extreme emphasis and diction lingering on the last consonant. 

“Oh, so you know my name now?”

“It’s been the only name on the tip of my tongue all day,” chided Sherlock. “Teacher. I thought you were a teacher.”

She simply smiled at him in response.

Dr. Watson finally arrived in the doorway, gasping for breath. I could see him slowly scan the room, checking for injuries. When he saw that everyone was alright, he clapped the heels of his shoes militarily and turned toward the woman.

“So, how long have you been a criminal mastermind?” he asked his ex-girlfriend.

John Watson had dated this young woman for a brief time several years ago. Greg had spent Christmas Eve with them and other friends. I recalled him referring to her as “grumpy.” Apparently, even on Christmas, she never smiled. Sherlock was certainly not mistaken when he said that John had a penchant for the dangerous and the clinically insane. 

“Only since Mr. Holmes ensured that my brother was locked up for life in Wakefield Prison.” 

John glanced in my direction before he spoke. “I’m sure we can all sit down and have a conversation about this.”

Amon Reluz had been on my radar for years. He was a serial predator. He had been incarcerated previously for various sexually-based offenses. Recently, though, he had been responsible for the murders of two prominent Lords Temporal. I had authorized his capture and imprisonment sixteen months prior. His sentence ensured that he would be held in the so-called Monster Mansion for the rest of his life.

“A conversation is certainly possible,” I confirmed. “However, I can assure you that he will never be free again. I’m afraid I really can’t help you, Miss Reluz - no matter what government secrets you believe to hold hostage.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Holmes,” she contradicted.

“Pardon me?”

“I know. I’m sorry. You’re probably not used to hearing that. I said you’re wrong. My brother will be free again.”

“Miss Reluz, I will not negotiate with you, nor will any criminal justice office or intelligence agency in the British nation.” 

“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to negotiate. He’s already free,” Jeanette explained.

“What?” John’s reaction was a reflex of his shock.

Sherlock looked at me as his eyes widened with concern. What had we missed?

The lower hinge on my washroom door was in need of oil. I heard it creak as it slowly opened. A tall, muscular man, clearly her junior, emerged from the door behind Jeanette.

Amon walked past his sister, approaching Dr. Watson near the bed chamber’s entrance. His build suggested that he was capable of doing significant damage without assistance or weapons. He, however, was swinging my umbrella in his hand as he moved.

Dr. Watson reached for his gun, looking stumped as he touched his bare hip.

“Sorry, John. I had a friend at the hospital make sure that you’d be unarmed when you got here.” 

This woman had managed to set a bomb at Downing Street, blow Lady Smallwood’s office, rig my entire property with underground explosive capacity, hire an assassin to chase us, disappear the Cabinet Secretary, nick Dr. Watson’s gun, and arrive in my bedroom before even Sherlock Holmes could stop her. It was nearly impossible for Sherlock or me to know what else she had planned.

Greg pulled his pistol from his joggers and pointed it at Amon.

Jeanette spoke again. “Inspector, I remember you being quite the gentleman, but your vigilance where Mr. Holmes is concerned is overwhelming. Either you have a hero complex or an affectionate, personal investment in his survival. I’d bet on the latter. All clad in half done pyjamas with a disheveled bed during broad daylight,” she observed. “Is there something you’d like your friends to know?” 

Sherlock cocked his head with empathy as he looked at me, apologizing with his eyes. Dr. Watson’s mouth suddenly gaped open, clearly taking a moment to drink in my unbuttoned shirt lying atop the bedclothes, and the apparent fact that both sides of the bed had been used. I could see his eyes squint at Greg in bewilderment, considering his mussed hair and the shallow point at which the joggers rested on his hips. 

Amon tapped the umbrella across the wooden floor as he slid his feet, inch by inch, toward Greg. He lessened the gap between them down to approximately a meter. 

“You should know, though,” Jeanette continued, “that Glock has been jammed for four days. You’ve been completely useless to him. And, sorry, by the way, if that’s my fault,” she finished, nodding toward the gauze covering his oblique.

Greg’s arm twitched. It was the first lack of steadiness with his weapon I’d ever witnessed. He inhaled, adjusted his shoulders, and recomposed himself, aiming directly between the fugitive’s eyes. If the gun was fully functioning, it was a perfect kill shot. He rarely needed to use the skill, but he was well known for his unerring marksmanship. I moved closer to him as he pulled his trigger. 

Nothing. The gun was, in fact, jammed. Sherlock locked eyes with me. How could they have compromised a Scotland Yard issued firearm without us anticipating it? How was she eluding us? 

“Mr. Holmes,” the young man began to speak, “they say you’re very clever. You’re a myth. A legend. The unmatched erudite living in his castle controlling all of Britain.” He raised my umbrella, staring at it. “Given everything my sister has accomplished, I wonder if all that is true.” 

Greg reacted by backing up closer to me, reaching behind his back to grip the side of my hip. He seemed to be trying to both reassure himself that he was guarding me, as well as offer comfort. 

“But this. This really is the brightest thing I’ve seen.” He disassembled the contraption, removing the brolly and sword with one jolt. His finger caressed the pistol’s trigger as he aimed it toward Greg.

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” Jeanette began, “we have control of all the Intelligence of the free world simply by nicking your laptop. But that was so simple. And it could make millions suffer. But we needed to find a way to make you suffer. Just like you’ve tried to do to my baby brother.”

“Your _ baby brother  _ ,” I mocked, “has brutally killed two significant men and caused suffering and trauma to countless other men and women for more than a decade.”

“Listen!” Dr. Watson’s voice was loud and panicked. “There’s no reason for anyone to shoot anyone,” he insisted, walking toward Jeanette. He was lost without the security of his weapon. “Mycroft isn’t fighting you. No one is resisting anyone. Let’s just talk.”

“Actually, the D.I. here tried to shoot me in the head,” said the prisoner.

“But he didn’t,” reasoned Sherlock. “He didn’t shoot you.”

“He didn’t because my sister outwitted him. Not because he didn’t want to.”

“We thought about killing you,” Jeanette told Sherlock. “I wanted to cause as much pain as possible, and I do know what it’s like to worry about one’s little brother. Your relationship seemed a bit complicated, though, so we weren’t quite sure.” She paused. “Judging by the way the Inspector is clinging to your brother, though, he’s definitely the more important target.”

I heard car doors slamming shut in the garden and a helicopter overhead. The British Secret Service and Scotland Yard had my home under surveillance. Though Greg hadn’t been able to call for back up, he was about to get it.

Jeanette’s body stiffened as she moved toward the window to find the source of the sounds. Her head whipped around quickly to make eye contact with her brother.

“Amon Reluz. Surrender now!” called an amplified voice from the helicopter. “Release all hostages and surrender now!”

I could hear shoes running on the checkered marble of my foyer. 

Amon’s eyes rested on me with fury. He still had my gun focused on Greg. I watched as his knuckles curled just slightly. He was about to fire, but his arm was unsteady. The pattern of shaking suggested that his shot would hit Greg’s abdomen, most likely his liver. The men downstairs would be too late. 

As the blast happened, I moved immediately toward Greg, pushing him out of the way. The impact of the bullet crippled me with searing pain. I heard Greg and Sherlock yell my name in unison as I dropped to the floor, head landing under the shadow of my bed.

I had never been entirely sure that I’d sufficiently understood, let alone felt, love. Finally - finally, I was sure. This was love.


	7. Chapter 7

I felt a hand squeezing mine. I was groggy, heavy-eyed, and weak. Without opening my eyes, I moved my hand to trace the features of the one clinging to me. 

Greg. It was Greg. His hands were always rough but surprisingly gentle.

As I attempted to sit up, he tightened his grip. “Try to stay still,” he said softly.

My right arm was completely numb. I opened my eyes to find that my vision was blurry, at best. Morphine. I was loaded full of morphine. The last thing I could vividly recall was Greg kissing my arms, then saying that he loved me. Had I replied? 

“What happened?” I asked Greg, trying to turn my head toward him. The numbness of my right shoulder wouldn’t allow me to make eye contact with him.

“You’re gonna be fine.” 

That wasn’t an answer to my question. I clenched Greg’s hand harder to show vexation. “What happened?”

“A man you put in prison shot you. Well, he tried to shoot Lestrade, but you thought it’d be a good idea to push him out of the way. Caring - causes a lot of trouble, doesn’t it brother dear?” Sherlock was speaking from the corner of the room. He needed to keep his distance, no doubt, from the morphine pump. Far too tempting. 

Greg leaned in. “Showed your hand with more than your eyes this time.” He kissed my temple before straightening up.

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but a sharp pain on my right side stopped my diaphragm from expanding. Now, I could remember. A bit. Amon Reluz. We’d been dealing with his sister. He had my gun. The bullet would have hit Greg’s abdomen. 

“It may not be advantageous for me, brother mine, but it seems to have been for Greg.”

Sherlock’s phone vibrated. “Anderson, what’ve you got? Not much, I assume,” he demeaned as he walked out of the room.

“I’m trained to face armed and violent criminals, Mycroft. I wish you wouldn’t have…”

“You would’ve died,” I interrupted.

“How can you be sure?”

“His hand was unsteady, but there’s no doubt the bullet would have blown through the bottom of your liver. You wouldn’t have survived without a transplant, and even that would have been fruitless if the hemorrhaging wasn’t stopped soon enough.” My speech was slow and unmetered. I was impaired by more than morphine. “I’m taller. If I blocked his shot at you with the side of my body, taking into consideration the speed of his tremor, he’d hit my arm or my pelvic girdle. Less chance at severe damage.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that mind of yours is a blessing or a curse.”

It took a moment to muster the right words. “Well, in this case, Greg, I do believe my mind was motivated by something else.”

Before I could endure any more thought, his velvety soft lips were on mine. 

“What did they operate on?” I asked as his mouth left mine. It was clear to me now that I’d been under a potent anesthetic. 

“Your pelvis. Like you said.” Greg’s voice carried the sound of amazement. “The bullet grazed your arm and then lodged itself into your side. Something about a wing?”

“Ilium wing.”

“Yeah. That’s it. The top part was shattered. So, they had to remove the lead and a lot of bone fragments.” 

That explained the unique pain I’d felt on impact. If the wing was shattered significantly enough they would have replaced it. “And?”

“And - now you’re The Six Million Dollar Man.”

“Titanium?”

“Yep.”

“At least six weeks’ recovery.”

“Right again,” he laughed. 

“I’ll need to call Anthea to arrange assistance with…”

“No. You won’t.”

“I can never be completely out of commission, Greg. Especially if Elizabeth is -,” I paused. “How is Lady Smallwood?” 

“She didn’t make it,” declared Sherlock, returning to the room and walking toward my bedside. “And you  _ will  _ be out of commission for at least four weeks. No work at all. I’ve already spoken with the Prime Minister.”

“ _ You  _ ?”

“Don’t you remember, big brother? That EPA you filed ages ago? You wanted to make sure our parents didn’t have to make all the decisions if something happened to you.”

“I’m perfectly alright. I’m conscious. You have no right to enact Power of Attorney.”

“On the contrary, you  _ were  _ unconscious for a while. I had to speak with your Masters anyway to reassure them that Jeanette and her brother were both in custody and that all threats were neutralized. Your laptop is in good hands, now.”

“What do you expect me to do for four weeks without work?”

“Well, since you go in for all that sentiment stuff now,” Sherlock began, glancing at Greg, then back to me, “I’m sure you can find something to occupy your time.” He flipped his coat collar and walked toward the door. “Of course, you’ll need to get creative. No physical exertion, you know.”

The door echoed as it slammed behind him.

“Look, I’m sorry he did all that. But it’s for the best. You know it is. Take time to rest, and you’ll be good as new in no time.” Greg stroked my forearm as he spoke.

“Greg, I can’t just lie in bed for four weeks.”

“I promise. It won’t feel that way. I’ll stay with you and look after you. We’ll find things to do. The time will pass before you know it.”

He was trying valiantly to make things better. My vision was clearing just slightly, and I could see in his eyes that he was feeling guilty. “What’s wrong, Greg?” I prompted.

“You don’t know? You don’t know something?”

I cocked my head and gave him a scolding glance. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Well, Mycroft, it was my job to protect you.”

“This isn’t your fault, Greg. I pushed you out of the way.”

“Yeah. Well, if I were smart, I would’ve been prepared for that. If I could figure people out like you and your brother, I would’ve known you were going to do that.”

“Greg…” He didn’t give me time to speak.

“And now, here we are.” He shuffled his feet with frustration.

“Yes, Greg. Here we are - alive. We’re both alive.”

He had a look of disgust in his eyes and shuffled his feet again.

“When I think about it a bit more, four weeks on the mend might be - enjoyable.”

“You think?”

“Well, if nothing else, I can force you into as many consequential conversations as I like without you being able to seduce your way out of it.”

His furrowed brow raised, and he mustered a half-grin. 

***

The succulent aroma of bacon coaxed me out of a deep sleep. 

I reached for my watch on the bedside table. Day twenty. 

I heard Greg’s solid footsteps on the staircase. As I looked up, his silver head peeked around the mahogany door frame. “G’morning,” he offered as he glided toward me. “Ready?”

He had decided that making a full English would provide some sort of incentive for me to independently descend my three levels of stairs. I had, admittedly, not been incredibly cordial to the physical therapist who had tried to visit twice already. 

“Fry up’s ready. Down ya’ come.” He stopped next to me, visibly preparing his body to brace my shoulders.

“I can stand just fine, Greg.”

“I know. Just in case.” He gripped my shoulder with a touch of comfort rather than physical support.

I offered my hand, and he laced his fingers with mine. “Don’t help me. Just walk with me?”

“My pleasure,” he granted with a wink. 

***

Greg had been outstanding. He had waited on me and doted upon me every day. It felt good. Despite my temporary disability, it felt like we were finally living the life we had talked about so often over the years. 

He had spent the afternoon at work in my bedroom. He’d emphatically insisted that it was a surprise and refused to offer any clues as to what he was planning. In return, he’d made me vow to avoid any deductions, organic or attempted. 

He had finally come to fetch me from the parlour. We sauntered up the stairs together, Greg stopping every few steps to check my face for signs of smarting or struggle. I had said, “I’m fine,” so many times in the past five weeks that it was no longer worth the effort. He was going to worry no matter what I said or did. 

When we finally reached the bedroom door, he placed his hand at the small of my back to guide me through the door as he opened it. The smell of honey hit my senses first. Then, I noticed the large, roaring fire in the hearth across from the bed. There were lit candles along the entire mantle as well as a cluster of three flames on each bedside table. Near the large French windows across the room was a small iron table and two chairs. There was a colorful floral arrangement in the center, and both places were set with red wine, possibly a sauvignon. The smell of caramelized honey was floating around the glazed carrots that rested on plates at each setting. In the center of each rested a colorful ceramic ramekin topped with mash. The sheer red curtains were tied back, revealing the view of my property. It was dusk, allowing the stars and electric lights to dance together in the darkening sky. 

I wrapped my arm around Greg’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

He smiled without a word, trying to hide a tear in his left eye.

“Why tonight?”

“You’ll see,” he assured as he pulled me toward the table. “You’ve made so much progress lately. And now that you’ve started making calls and doing work again, I just wanted to make sure you slowed down a little here and there.”

“It’s beautiful.” I had found that over these last several weeks, appreciative, kind, even caring comments such as that frequently happened with very little thought. 

Greg talked about some dealings he’d had at Scotland Yard that morning as we enjoyed the Cottage Pie he’d made. I did hear what he said but perhaps wasn’t listening as intently as I should. I was busy examining the way in which the firelight danced in his corneas. 

Suddenly, I heard a gunshot.

No. 

It was an explosive.

As I looked up from my meal, Greg smiled at me, turning his gaze slowly toward the window. 

Fireworks. 

“It’s bonfire night,” he explained. 

I had been taking and making calls with the Prime Minister and the Secret Service, but I hadn’t yet really looked at my diary. I hadn’t even realised it was November. 

Greg had gone through all this trouble simply so we would be eating together by the windows as fireworks began sprinkling the skies of the city. 

“Come on.” He stood up, grabbed my arm, and led me out onto the balcony. 

Not since I was a child had I watched fireworks. 

From my home, we could see five different displays. Greg wrapped his arm around my hip. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him quite so happy. The ever-changing colors of the fireworks created hues on Greg’s content face. We stood there together as the fireworks lulled into individual shells shot once every few minutes.

“There’s one more surprise.” Greg turned and walked back inside. 

He motioned for me to sit on the bed. I made my way to the edge and gently lowered myself onto the bedclothes. Greg handed me a sealed envelope. The envelope was heavy linen - from Scotland Yard. It was from a new box. 

“You’re not easy to surprise, ya’ know,” he commented, watching me make deductions about the envelope he’d handed to me.

I slowly opened it and carefully unfolded the page that he’d enclosed. The seal on the page identified a court document. It was the official ruling on his divorce. 

Greg couldn’t wait for me to digest the information or speak. “It’s finally over.”

I caught myself in a moment of sentiment. “Are you alright?” I didn’t take my eyes from the page.

“What? Of course. I’m more than alright.” He sat down next to me, placing one hand on the mattress behind me. With his chest pressing on my arm, he offered, “I’m finally yours - if you’ll have me.” 

I was completely capable of displaying brilliance in profound moments and critical conversations. In moments such as this, though, it took me longer to determine precisely what I should say than was often comfortable. 

Greg sensed my uneasiness. “It’s okay. You know you don’t have to say anything.”

In the five weeks that we’d been living together, we had reached an understanding that he was completely comfortable with me showing something when I might not be able to say it. 

I moved my arm and jostled his hand from behind me. He lost his balance, and his upper body fell onto the bed. I leaned over him, my lips anxiously finding their way to his neck. I kissed and nibbled until I felt a tingling warmth running through my arms and lower body. 

Before I could move to his lips, he pushed me back, sitting upright. “Leaning’s not the best thing.” He gently wrapped his arms around my waist and guided my body down onto the bed next to him. His knees straddled my hips as he took his shirt off, smiling at me the entire time. My hands quickly found their way to his backside. I dug into him as he leaned down and slowly unfastened my oxford, button by button, using his teeth. He slid it off my shoulders as he very gently flicked my nipples with his tongue. My groin began to ache. He moved to the center of my chest, kissing his way down to the navel. He unzipped my trousers and lowered them until my pelvis was bare.

“Greg….” I wanted so desperately to tell him how he made me feel. He deserved to know what everything he’d done for me meant. 

I was frozen. I was utterly unable to say what I felt. 

“It’s okay,” he said again. He redirected his kisses to the scar over my pelvic bone - titanium pelvis, rather. “You never have to say it. This says it for you.” He kissed the scar as I ran my fingers through his hair. Being so close to him after so long brought a sense of euphoria to wash over me. 

My eyes drifted shut as he moved from my pelvis to my groin. With his mouth parted just slightly, he released warm air up the underside of my shaft, licking the leaking slit where he stopped. 

I may not have looked at my diary, but I knew for certain it had been one year, two months, and eighteen days.

Still straddling my legs, he raised himself to his feet and discarded his trousers onto the floor. He was a beautiful man. Every part of him was breathtaking. I reached up and pulled his hips toward me. 

Greg’s hands fisted in my hair as he balanced himself on the mattress and shuttered with pleasure as I took him in my mouth. I had all of him but simultaneously felt I couldn’t get enough. 

After more than a year and now having limited physical movement, I was uneasy. I was nervous, but I wanted him. He felt good. He tasted good. 

He pulled himself away, lowering back to his knees. I watched his cock drip with anticipation as he sat gently on my chest. I wanted more of it.

“Let me take care of things,” he whispered, taking my face in his hands and kissing me so hard my head hit the backboard of the bed. 

He’d said he was mine if I’d have him. All I could do now was hope he wanted me as feverishly as I wanted him.


	8. Chapter 8

Greg’s tongue massaged mine as he reached for the drawer of the bedside table. It was strong but soft. He abandoned my kiss to push a box of condoms out of the way and instead collect a bottle of lubricant.   
“Greg, perhaps we should….”  
He interrupted me, knowing exactly my concern. “I didn’t sleep with her.”  
This wasn’t at all the most appealing time to think about him with someone else, but that was lovely to hear. A year spent trying to reconcile with his wife, and they hadn’t been intimate?   
“I didn’t sleep with her once,” he reiterated. “And nothing’s changed for you.”   
He hadn’t posed it as a question, but I still replied, “No.” Greg knew very well that he was the only man I’d ever been with and that I intended to keep it that way.   
“Then we’re clear,” he whispered into my ear, gliding his way back to my mouth. I gave in to the heat of his lips. So long as neither of us had strayed elsewhere since our most recent medical tests, there was no need to put any sort of barrier between his smooth skin and mine.  
I could feel him unscrew the bottle cap as he sucked my bottom lip. The sound of his strong hands rubbing together to warm the oil sent a chill down my spine. I pushed harder into his kiss. Then came the invigorating feeling of oil on my skin. Still sitting on my chest, he’d reached around to grip my cock. He found a slow rhythm, pumping up and down, slathering me with the soft moisture. I moaned into his mouth, clenching his powerful, beefy thighs. Once he’d transferred all the oil, he raised himself to his knees and reached for my hand. He poured the substance into my palm. It smelled, and, I could recall, tasted like strawberries.  
As I reached around his body, he moved slightly closer, presenting himself to me again. I waited until I’d begun to prepare him with my fingers and then took all of him in my mouth. I echoed the rhythm he’d already set with both my lips and fingers. His hands gripped my shoulders as he failed to resist the urge to thrust himself deeper into my mouth. Eventually, he reached around to remove my hand and backed himself, throbbing, out of my mouth. He rested on my chest again and kissed my collar bone, following a trail of freckles to my ear. “Just close your eyes and enjoy it.”   
His breath left the side of my face, and I felt his hand wrap around my cock. My body trembled as he slowly lowered himself onto me, growling a bit as he did. Greg’s motions were clumsy at first, but the sensation of his muscles gripping me was intoxicating. I could tell he was worried about hurting me. Never in the years we’d been together had he mounted me. We had both been craving one another, and this was his solution.   
I reached out for his hips. “I’m okay. I’ll tell you if I’m not,” I promised.  
I felt him trace my scar as he accepted my reassurance. “Okay.”  
His fingers brushed my body from my scar to my chest. He placed his palm face down on my chest and adjusted the pace of his hips to match my heart rate. He’d done it many times before. I never really understood it, but it was special in some undefined way.   
The urge to thrust deeper into him and the desperation to rock my pelvis against the resistance of his body made the inability to do so seem excruciating.   
He must have interpreted my grunts as a need for more because his pace slowed just slightly as he seated himself deeper onto my lap. He gasped for breath with every pump, signaling that my prick was hitting that magic circle.   
Neither of us was going to last long.   
I reached for him and began stroking him twice as fast as he was riding me.  
His rhythm didn’t change, but he made sure his buttocks rested flush with my thighs before every upward movement, letting as much of me inside him as was possible.  
I started to lose my breath. I did feel a twinge of pain in my abdomen while trying to regulate it. He didn’t need to know that. I was flirting so dangerously on the edge now that it no longer mattered. I felt pain with every pant, but the sublime over energizing of my synapses made up for it. I felt a pleasure I could almost taste. I caught myself biting my lip while the colors flashed before my closed eyes. The more I struggled to breathe, the more I could smell the burning logs on the other side of the room.   
Greg’s deep voice moaned in rhythm with my fist. I could feel his legs trembling against me. His body released a year, two months, and eighteen days of desire onto my stomach.   
His muscles tightened as his body rocked through the end of his release. The tightening around my cock made mine begin. As my muscles contracted, the pain in my side was almost unbearable. I screamed as I poured everything I had into Greg. He leaned forward, bracing my biceps as my body quivered in an indescribable mixture of rapture and agony.  
“It was too soon. I’m so sorry.” He moved slowly as I fell out of him and rested his body beside mine.   
“No.” I kissed him, suddenly feeling tears escape my eyes.   
Greg leaned back. “It hurts that much? Oh, Mycroft. My God.”  
I rubbed his hip. “No. No.” His eyes were filled with fear. “It feels that good,” I whispered.  
I gave up any fight I had left in me as I kissed him again and let the tears flow. I had missed him. I’d missed the one person in the world with whom I could be real. I’d missed the one person in the world to whom I could bare my body and my soul.   
Greg’s understanding and acceptance of what I was - the Iceman, Jim Moriarty had called me - that’s what made him so important to me. There was no one else on earth who would accept me for that frigid exterior and allow me to offer with my body what I couldn’t in words.  
I could only remember crying once before. I was seven. Sherlock was born.  
I held this perfect man in my arms for a few minutes as we both gained our composure.   
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Greg stood, taking my hand, helping me move through my pain, and led me to the shower. 

***

I had never been one for social gatherings, nor did I frequent public dining establishments of any sort. The only place I routinely spent time in public was at The Club, where things were peaceful and silent. Greg had, however, insisted that I meet him for drinks at a small pub he’d found. He had acted as my nurse for two months, so I really didn’t feel I had the right to decline any of his ideas.  
As I walked in, I was pleasantly caught off guard. It was reasonably small, very dark, and nearly empty. At first glance, things appeared sufficiently clean and well-tended. There was a distinctly enjoyable sound of quiet - no music or telly playing.   
I had made it a point to dress a bit better than usual. I had a tough question to ask Greg - difficult for me. I had made my mind that I would ask him here. Forcing myself into a specific time and place made it less likely that I would fail.   
I spotted the radiance of his handsome face, sitting in a corner across the main room. He nodded his head to greet me from a distance. I sat down to a luscious glass of cabernet and Greg’s comforting smile.   
I dared not give myself the luxury of time. “Greg, can I ask you something?”   
“Anything.” There was a slight shadow of concern on his face.   
“I spoke with my mother and father yesterday.”   
“How are they?”   
“Fine. Fine. Mummy would like Sherlock and me to take them to Sherrinford on Christmas Eve.”  
“Are you up for that?”  
“It’s not my choice. It’s what she wants.”  
“Okay.” His eyes squinted at me a bit, wondering where I could be aiming with this line of conversation.  
“Since we’ll all be together, then, she’s demanding a proper Christmas dinner after.”  
“I wouldn’t expect less from any mother.”  
“Greg,” I hesitated just slightly, “would you go to dinner with me?”  
“With your parents? And Sherlock?”  
“As my - my -” What was the word I was looking for?  
“Boyfriend?”  
“Yes.” I heard myself exhale, more obviously than I’d hoped.   
A hushed laugh escaped Greg’s chest. “Well, you figure out what word you’re gonna use to introduce me, and I promise I’ll go.”  
“You will?” I wasn’t wholly shocked but hadn’t expected the conversation to be quite so brief and straightforward.  
“Of course. I’m flattered.” His smile glowed from across the table. I could tell he wanted to take my hand but wasn’t sure I’d receive it well in public.   
Now I simply had to determine the best way to mention to Mummy I was bringing a guest.

***

I’d been sitting in my office reading reports for nearly six hours. My mobile vibrated and startled me half out of my chair.   
“Mycroft Holmes.” I hadn’t bothered to read the name displayed on the screen.  
“Hey. It’s me. We have a problem.” Greg’s voice was so unstable it sounded as though his body was trembling when he spoke.   
“What is it?”  
“Can you just meet me at home? I don’t think this is something we should deal with on the phone.” 


	9. Chapter 9

I found myself seated on a wooden chair in the corner of my sitting room, staring out the window. It felt as though it’d been hours since Greg had called. After checking my pocket watch, I realised that not even one hour had passed. 

A police car pulled into the drive. “Still on duty, then,” I determined aloud and then made my way to the sofa. 

“Hi.” Greg was out of breath, less from hurrying into the house and more from anxiety. 

“What’s going on?” 

He sat down next to me, throwing his jacket across the tea table. His hand was cold as ice and unsteady as he rested it on my knee. “You tried to talk to me, and I wouldn’t listen.” 

“I try never to talk  _ to  _ you, Greg. What did I try to talk  _ with  _ you about?” 

“Somehow you knew - you always know - you knew this would happen.” 

I took his hand in mine. “Greg, breathe.” I paused, allowing a second for him to gain composure. “Start at the beginning of the story and walk me through what’s wrong.” 

Still half breathless, he expounded, “the pub. When I had you meet me after work for drinks.” 

“What about it?” 

“You knew that someone would see us together eventually. You said it.” 

“Did I?” I genuinely couldn’t recall. 

“Of course you did. And you were right. He saw us. And now I have to undergo an interrogation tomorrow.” 

“Slow down. Who saw us?” 

“The Deputy Commissioner.” 

That was a rank high enough that I could impose some control. 

“He’s going to question me,” Greg reiterated, becoming frustrated at my lack of reaction. “What am I going to say?” 

“The truth.” 

“They’re never going to trust me again.” 

“Well, if you feel that way, Greg, you have two options, really.” 

“What options?” 

“We can end this, and you can tell them that it was an isolated social call set up by my brother. Then, they’ll have full trust in you. Nothing will change.” 

“Are you a barmy fool?” His voice was rising to a shout. “That’s not an option at all.” 

“Alright, then. There are no options. You tell the truth.” I matched him in tone and volume. 

He let out a huff of air. “This is a mess.” 

“Greg, people are going to find out. It won’t be easy. Coming out as bisexual after you’ve been married to the opposite gender is a very different animal than other things. It does have to happen, though.” 

“I know that. I’m not worried ’bout that. I don’t care about that.” He finally stopped to breathe. “I don’t care one whit if the entire world knows that I like being fucked by a man. I’ll proudly tell them that I am irrevocably in love with a man.” His voice was steady and calm. “But when that man is Mycroft Holmes,” he was almost whispering now, “that’s something else.” 

“You won’t be interrogated.” 

“Yes. I will. They assume I’m working for you behind their backs. They think I have classified information.” 

“You won’t be interrogated. I’ll call the Deputy Commissioner over for a little chat.” 

“That will just make it all worse, Mycroft. Your power is what they’re worried about.” 

“It won’t be a power chat. It will be a chat, among all three of us, about reason.” 

“Three of us?” 

“Go finish your shift, then come back, change your clothes, and be ready to talk with him over dinner.” 

“You’re going to cook dinner?” 

“I’ll have Anthea order something in. It will all be fine.” 

“You’re sure you want to get involved with this?” 

“I don’t think either of us has much say in that matter. Given our positions, this has to be dealt with.” One thought stopped me for a few seconds. “Unless you want to go back to hiding.” 

“No. I’ve made a lot of promises to you, and I plan on keeping ’em.” 

“Then follow my lead on this, Greg.” 

***

I was not in the habit of welcoming people to my home. Generally, if I needed to do business outside the office, I’d have the necessary parties delivered to The Club. If I wanted the Deputy Commissioner to understand Greg’s relationship with me for what it indeed was, though, it couldn’t be discussed in an official or particularly formal setting.

The table was set. The bar was polished. I’d lit the lights in the garden that were angled to perfectly illuminate the stained glass of my dining room. Anthea had even brought three large floral centerpieces for the table that I had mixed about with crystal candlesticks. 

“Are these my clothes?” Greg walked into the dining room, tugging at his waistband. 

“They’re certainly not mine,” I jested, looking up at him. “If they were, that jumper would be near to your knees.” 

He was striking. I heard myself blow air out of my pursed lips. “You are positively peng.” 

“I didn’t know I had clothes this nice.” He looked around the room. “Are you sure this isn’t all a bit much?” 

“Oh, it’s more than a bit much. That’s the idea.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“If I show my status, my power over him, by the home he’s entering, the table he’s sitting down at, the meal he’s eating, then it never needs to be spoken. Our conversation really can simply be an admission of what’s going on between us. In the back of his mind, though, he’ll remember that he doesn’t want to rock any boats of which I may control the buoyancy.” 

Greg shook his head slightly as he walked toward me. “You are a dangerous man, Mycroft Holmes.” 

“You don’t want to cross me, Inspector,” I recommended, leaning down and snatching his lips with mine. 

He bit my lip playfully as he pulled away. “Maybe getting me all flushed before he gets here is a bad idea.” 

As I began to laugh, there was a knock at the door. “Ready?” 

“No.” 

“Just trust me. Sit. I’ll be in with him in a few minutes.” 

Anthea had stayed to help with appearances. I waited near the stairs as she crossed the foyer and answered the door. Her beauty was, without question, the best set-piece I had in my arsenal of power and influence. I could count on most men losing at least a quarter of their cognitive function after initial interaction with her. 

I allowed him time to gawk, then moved in behind her. “George,” I greeted enthusiastically, “how are you?” 

“Mr. Holmes.” He matched my enthusiasm and offered his hand. “It was quite a pleasant surprise hearing from you.” 

“Well, George, the truth is, I have something quite important I thought we should discuss.” 

Anthea headed up the stairs with his overcoat as I walked with him toward the dining room. 

“Mr. Holmes, you know Scotland Yard is always honored to assist in any way we can.” 

“I certainly hope that’s true,” I commented. “I also hope you like a very wet martini.” I stopped at the bar and handed him a prepared glass. 

“My wife will never forgive me,” he said, drinking half the glass in one swig. “But what a woman doesn’t know can’t hurt us, right, old boy?” 

He was an archaic chauvinist, which didn’t bode well for the situation he was about to encounter. 

I smiled without acknowledging his comment, slowly guiding him toward the dining room. “I hope you’ll understand that I asked someone else to join us this evening as well, George,” I said, entering the dining area. 

“Lestrade?” His voice was part shocked, part angry. 

Greg stood at attention immediately. “Hello, sir.” 

“What exactly is going on here, Mr. Holmes?” 

“It has come to my attention, George, that suspicion has arisen where Detective Inspector Lestrade is concerned. I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight,” I said. I maintained composure, despite his sudden state of agitation. I motioned toward the chair across from Greg, inviting George to be seated. 

“And how exactly did that come to his attention, Lestrade?” 

“I told him, sir,” Greg answered, his voice firm yet hushed. 

“Do you understand the term confidentiality, D.I.?” 

“I’m sure he does,” I interjected. “I believe, though, once you understand the situation, you’ll no longer feel he’s breached it.” 

“What is the situation, Mr. Holmes? I have to tell you that having a commissioned officer dealing with MI6 in the dark is upsetting.” 

“Well, George, I am not - specifically - MI6, so I can certainly assure you that is not what is happening here.” 

“Fill me in, then, Mr. Holmes. Why are you meeting with our guys in secret at pubs?” He glared at Greg as he prompted me. 

“What you saw, George, wasn’t a meeting. It was just drinks.” 

“You expect me to believe that a man of your status is just a casual friend of an Inspector? Ya’ just meet up for drinks a few times a year to shoot the breeze?” 

I looked at Greg, seeking permission with my eyes. Instead of offering assurance for me to reply, he spoke. “No, sir. We expect you to believe that someone of his status is the paramour of an Inspector.” 

George stared at Greg for a few seconds, then looked at me. “I’m sorry?” 

I clarified, “George, the truth is that what you saw was merely a couple meeting for drinks after work.” 

“A couple?” He paused, then looked back at Greg. “You’re married.” He paused again. “To a woman.” 

“I’m divorced, sir.” 

“A couple?” 

“We felt it was best that you know the truth of the matter, George, but do, of course, hope that you will respect our privacy as well.” 

“You two…” He interrupted himself with silence. 

“Sir, I hope you know that my professional ethics remain the same.” 

The Commissioner remembered his concerns. “I have to question that, Lestrade.” He looked at me. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure you have ways to access any privileged information that the Inspector might work with on the day to day. My concern, though, is the level of classified information that you deal with. We can’t have one of our guys compromised by that sort of knowledge.” 

“George, I assure you that will never be a concern. Classified information is just that, classified.” 

“Do you type of people talk?” 

I knew what he was implying but didn’t feel the need to give it credence. “Not about classified information, of course, George.” 

“I mean. I know you like to….” Evidently he was going to continue to assume that men attracted to men did nothing but shag. “Well, is there pillow talk?” 

“I understand the concerns that you and your office may have. A Scotland Yard inspector in a long-term relationship with someone in a higher government office is worry making. I will, again, assure you, though, that Inspector Lestrade has never, nor will he ever, have access to classified information. I will also promise you he will never be asked to compromise his duties, confidentiality, or oath for the benefit of my office.” 

“Lestrade, I don’t want to see you risk your post. Any hint that you’ve crossed a line, and you’ll be sacked.” 

“Now, George,” I said. “I’m sure you know that he will continue to respect his office.” I paused for effect. “In other news, the QPM announcements will be going out soon,” I declared cheerfully, passing a dish to the Commissioner. 

Greg’s eyes were wide as saucers as he looked over at me. 

***

The table was nearly cleared, and Anthea had made her way home safely. Greg brought the final handful of china to me at the sink. He hadn’t said a word since the Commissioner had left.

“Did you really just bribe him with the Queen’s Police Medal?” he asked, finally breaking the silence. 

“I don’t know when it will ever sink into your head, Greg.” 

“What?” 

“That there’s no point in having power if you can’t use it.” 

He took the plate out of my hand, dropped it back in the sink, and spun me around by the waist. “Thank you,” he offered, reaching up to kiss me. 

“I told you it would be fine.” 

“You did. So, why don’t I reward you by building a fire? This can wait.” 

“This  _ can  _ wait, yes. How exactly is a fire a reward for me, though?” 

“You love a good fire.” 

“Granted. However, the only reason  _ you  _ like a good fire is to lie in front of it and ask me to read to you.” 

“Your point?” 

“So, my reward for saving your job is having to read to you?” 

“You love it.” He removed my tie and unfastened my collar. 


	10. Chapter 10

It hardly needs to be said that my siblings and I did not experience childhood in the same way as other children. That may have been most evident during the Christmas season. We couldn’t be convinced of the secular magic of Father Christmas or surprised by gifts. Our parents struggled to celebrate the religious aspects of the observance accompanied by our constant analysis of the origin of its traditions, many of which make little sense. In his tender years, Sherlock could be momentarily mesmerized by twinkle lights and music, but that was as near to normal as any of us ever proved to be. 

My Christmas experiences remained much the same as we aged. In the earliest years of his adulthood, I found myself tracking my little brother, only to find him high and in cold sweats under a bridge or in a dosshouse. I was often able to avoid any invitation to my parent’s home for the day. In more recent years, I usually spent the day alone in my parlour, before a fire with an unforgivably expensive bottle of wine. I generally found an old film to watch in an effort to keep my thoughts away from Greg as evening set in.

This year, of course, was very different. I had returned home from Sherrinford. My mother had cried for most of the visit, and I’d decided to give my father the time to help her recompose herself at home while I fetched Greg and while Sherlock - did whatever Sherlock did.

I’d been waiting in the car as Greg crawled into the back seat next to me. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket with very fitted denim trousers. Whatever reaction Mummy was going to have to our relationship, at least I could be sure she’d be as smitten with him as I. “You look amazing.” 

“Thank you.” He took my hand. “How did it go?”

“Exactly as expected.”

“Well, that’s good in its own way, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

***

“Let me take that, Myc,” Mummy said, as she reached up to brush snow off the shoulders of my jacket, simultaneously pulling it from my shoulders. “I thought you were bringing a friend along.”

I’d left Greg in the car. It seemed only right to take a moment to mention that I was gay before introducing him into the scenario. 

“Yes. I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes, though.”

My father led us all into the kitchen, where the table was covered in a spread of tea and devils on horseback. The turkey was sitting on the countertop, waiting to be carved.

“What do you want to talk about?” Mummy asked as we all sat.

“Well, I know I said I wanted to bring a friend to dinner. I don’t think, though, that friend was the proper word to use.”

“See! I told you,” she exclaimed, nudging my father’s elbow with her own, “My boy is in love.”

“Yes. Yes.” He said, eating a slice of bacon but leaving behind the prune. 

“Well, what’s to talk about, Myc? Where is he?”

What did she say? “He?” 

“Where is he?” She repeated herself with impatience. 

“I’m sorry. Did you say ‘he’?” 

“You thought we didn’t know?”

“Well, I….”

She interrupted. “Mycroft Holmes, I have the deductive skills of you and your brother combined. Besides, never underestimate the instincts of a mother.” 

I had never considered that they already knew. I should have. It would, of course, have been as evident to her as it was to Sherlock. It simply never crossed my mind. 

“I believe this belongs to you?” Sherlock’s voice floated in the doorway with Greg’s cologne. 

My parents both stood as Sherlock plopped into a chair and stuffed a handful of prunes into his mouth. 

Greg walked toward me as Mummy approached him to take his jacket and scarf.

“May I introduce Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” I said.

“No doubt, it’s just Greg?” asked my Mother, rubbing his arm as she spoke.

“Yes, ma’am.” Greg flashed his smile at her.

“He’s so formal, so proper,” she said, reaching over to pat my back. “Is he always like that, Greg?”

“Without fail.” He winked at me, sitting down next to Sherlock. 

***

We had collapsed together on the sofa after arriving home. After such a long, social day, resting my head on Greg’s lap, feeling his fingers run through my thin sideburns was more than I had the energy to appreciate. 

“Thank you for today,” I heard him purr as he slid his body down the sofa so that he could reach me more easily. 

“I should be thanking you.”

“No. Not really. It meant a lot to me.” 

“The Holmes family is a lot to handle.”

“Well, I deal with two of ya’ on the daily. Adding your sweet Mum and, frankly, normal Dad into the mix isn’t much of a challenge.”

I was caught in one of those beautiful moments that I lived for, but in which I was always lost for words. 

Greg didn’t acknowledge my silence. He simply chuckled as he continued, “We both smell of your Mum’s kitchen.”

“Do we? Is that bad?”

“It’s not a bad smell. Not really the smell I’d prefer right now, though.”

“No?”

“No. How about a bath?” 

Afraid of ruining the moment with the wrong words, I chose to moan in agreement instead.

“I’ll go run the water,” he said, sliding out from under me. “Come on up when you’re ready.”

***

The water was perfectly warm, and the salts Greg had added smelled of mint. I’d brought two glasses of apple brandy along that now sat empty on the side of the porcelain basin. The double-sized clawfoot tub sat in the middle of the room, surrounded on three sides by one-way tinted windows. I rested my neck on the back of the tub, looking out at the snow falling between the stars, savoring the feeling of Greg’s body resting against mine. 

For the first time, things were settled. We were together - officially. Everything was decided and functional. All that meant this was also the first time we could sit in silence together without knowing we were avoiding a strenuous conversation. So, we did precisely that. Greg’s damp hair tickling my collar bone. My arms wrapped around his chest. His hips resting between my legs so that his toes could reach mine. 

Every few minutes, he bent his neck to kiss my forearm. There was no other movement and no sound. At least not until his kisses on my forearm became a nibble tracking up my bicep. 

“Come with me,” he instructed, carefully moving to his feet. 

Without a word, I accepted his outstretched hand, allowing him to help me up. He wrapped us each in a towel, moved to stand behind me, and then used his hands to push my hips, encouraging me to walk toward the bedroom. It felt as though I was a child playing a train. 

Eventually, I landed on the edge of the bed and turned to face Greg. He stood before me, dropped his towel onto the floor, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, moving toward me until he was standing between my knees. I felt his nose brush through my hair and then a light kiss on the top of my head. He crawled onto the bed, pushing me back as well so that we were lying side by side and face to face. “I love you.” His voice was so deep, husky, and affecting. 

I traced my fingers from his thigh to his ribs. 

“It’s okay,” he reminded me, “you never have to say it.”

“That’s not true. I do wish you’d stop giving me a pass on it.”

“Wish all you want. I know. You don’t need to tell me.”

I shifted my body closer so that my hand could run along his back instead. “When did you know?”

“When did  _ I  _ know that  _ you  _ were in love with  _ me  _ ?”

“Um-hmm,” I murmured in confirmation.

“Uh. It was probably about five months in or so. We’d been meetin’ up for a while. We were down in the sitting room.”

I was surprised to realise that he didn’t just have a general time frame; it seemed he had a day, a time, a specific moment. 

“Well, that was the first time you did it anyway.”

“Did what?”

“Reached for my hand.”

“What do you mean?” I wasn’t following him at all.

“That night was the first time. But ever since then, you do it every time. Every time you…” He stopped and cleared his throat, clearly unsure he wanted to use the words that felt natural. “Every time you - come,” he cleared his throat again, “you find my hand to hold.”

“I do?”

“Every time. No matter what. Luckily, I’ve good balance.” He grinned. 

I suppose it was impressive that he always had a hand free.

“That’s when it changed. It didn’t feel like we were using each other anymore. You let it get personal.”

“I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

“Well, don’t start thinking about it and ruin it.”

“I won’t,” I promised, kissing his cheek. 

“How are you feeling? You haven’t said much.” His fingers tapped over top the scar on my pelvis. 

“I’m fine. Until I accidentally touch that, I don’t even remember anything happened. I’ve no pain at all and full range of motion. I sat still for three hours in my office yesterday and didn’t even experience a hint of stiffness standing after.”

“Good. Good.” He tapped the scar again. “Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“When was the last time you…” More throat clearing. Now what was he hesitating to mention? “When was the last time you - took care of things?” His fingers moved up the concave of my side and to the small of my back, quickly finding my tailbone.

“I’m fine,” I said with encouragement. 

“Not what I asked.”

“You don’t want to know the answer.”

“When?”

“This morning?” 

He pulled his neck back to lock eyes with me. The distinct glare of suspicion was now directed my way. I knew he wouldn’t be able to simply ignore the fact that I’d made preparations that morning for any range of sexual activity. “So what does that mean?” he asked.

“It means I’m fine,” I said, leaning in to kiss him. He softened for a moment, letting my tongue massage his soft palette. 

“Hmmm,” he hummed as he pulled away from the kiss. “Am I being controlled right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how you influence people. I just happen to choose tonight to break the ice on it, and you happen to be prepared for it?”

“Greg, I would never try to influence you - at least not without your knowledge or consent.”

“So it’s just a coincidence?”

“No.” I didn’t believe in coincidence. “It’s a deduction.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I knew how you’d react to the day and thought it might be a possibility. That’s all. Please move on now.”

He honored my request and brushed his fingers back and forth, like a paintbrush, in the space below my navel. “So, does that mean you’re up for it?”

“Just be patient with me.” I kissed his neck and started pulling on his earlobe with my teeth. 

He took little time to roll me onto my back and land his head between my legs. His tongue on my damp slit and his fingers tickling my perineum were enough to make me squirm with excitement. My bollocks ended up in his mouth. He kneaded and sucked and then pulled away, kissing his way to my hips. “Roll over.”

I could feel how flushed my cheeks already were as I rolled to face the pillow. I closed my eyes and took in the sounds of Greg rimming me as his hand teased my prick. Eventually, his lips kissed their way up my spine. “Relax for me.” His whisper against my ear sent a shot of heat through my veins. 

He reached for lubricant. The chill of the oil on my skin made me flinch. I felt his teeth in the flesh of my backside as he took his time preparing me. Eventually, his fingers disappeared, and I heard the quiet, wetness of him rubbing the oil on himself. His arm wrapped around my waist, hoisting me onto my knees. He leaned to my side and whispered again, “deep breaths, Daddy.” 

On my third deep inhale, my body lurched toward the edge of the bed. Then I exhaled, with a bit of a scream, the delightfully fine line between pleasure and pain that only taking in a very thick man for the first time in a year and a half can create. His body rocked inside of mine. I pushed back against his thrusts, growling through, but also completely reveling in, the sensation of fullness. I was so focused on the movements of his hips that I didn’t notice his hands or fingers. Whatever he was doing, my cock was content. He was a master of timing, careful to avoid my prostate until he knew he was close enough to the edge to bring me along with him. I clenched to the sheets beneath me as I tried to keep steady breath. I could smell Greg’s cologne on them. This was our bed. It wasn’t mine anymore. Everything I had belonged partly to him - which was exactly as I wanted it. “Greg,” I said, beckoning him to lean over me. 

He did. “What’s wrong?” I felt his breath against the back of my neck, but his rhythm didn’t break.

His hand grabbed my shoulder in response to my silence. “Are you okay, Mycroft?”

I reached my hand around to my shoulder to touch his. “Greg.” I had to pause to take a deep breath. His pace slowed with concern. “Greg, I love you.” I turned my head to kiss his hand after I spoke. 

His hand didn’t move, but he didn’t reply. His head pulled away, and his pace quickened so that he was hammering that perfect spot in the most glorious way. 

I buried my face in the bedclothes, whiting out to the smell of his cologne and the feeling of his release inside me, perfectly timed with my own. 

Greg didn’t move away but stayed on top of me, kissing the freckles on my shoulders. 

I reached around, stretching my neck as far as I could, and pulling his down so that I could just barely kiss the side of his mouth. 

“Move over,” he suggested, backing up and away from me.

I slid to the opposite edge of the large bed, so there was plenty of room for both of us away from the puddle of happiness I’d left on the duvet. 

I found myself resting my head on Greg’s beautiful chest. 

“Say it again.”

I laughed through my nose, looking up to smile at him. “You didn’t think I’d ever say it.” 

“I really didn’t.”

“I love you,” I said, then kissed his chest. “I love you.” I kissed him a few inches to the left. “I love you.” I repeated the phrase four more times, alternating it with kisses. 

He laughed out loud and took my face in his hand. Without a word, he stared at me for a moment, then offered the softest, most innocent kiss I’d ever experienced. His lips left mine as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, nuzzling his ear against mine. 

It had taken us nearly five years to finally reach this moment. 

“Can I ask just one thing?” Greg’s voice was gentle. 

“Of course.” As I replied, I heard the buzzing of a mobile vibrating against wood. Out of habit, we both looked to the opposite sides of the room at the bedside tables. Both of our mobiles were ringing at the same time. Greg started to reach for his.

“Wait!” I said abruptly.

“Hmm?” He looked at me, confused.

“What happened the last time we both answered him at the same time?” I was dead set against ever allowing a repeat of the year we’d had as a result of our experience at the aquarium. 

Greg let out a huff of air. “You don’t even know it’s him.”

“Don’t I?” 

He looked at me in silence, then sighed, throwing his head back against a pillow. “What if he’s actually in real trouble?”

“The only time he’d ever call instead of text is if it were life or death. Those were texts.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Trust me, Inspector,” I quipped back. “Now, what did you want to ask?”

“Can we move that one?” His arm moved to point to the armored horse standing in the corner of the bedroom. 

I moved in to kiss him with a smile. “As long as you do the leg work.”

His arms wrapped around me again as he kissed my cheek and ran his nose through my hair. “I’ll do the damn leg work.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, friends!  
> You can follow me on Twitter @antarcticaokane to keep up with news and updates!  
> And please make sure to read Christmas in the Cotswolds, the next fic in this series!


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